The Stilinski Grimoire
by Chanooa
Summary: After his mother comes to him in a dream, Stiles discovers that he has inherited magic from his mother. This seems to entangle him in Scott's current predicament. Stiles/Scott, M for future.
1. Chapter 1

**Many thanks to orionastro for another great prompt resulting in another great fic!**

Stiles dropped the flowers rather unceremoniously on the ground. They had seemed like a good idea at the store, but now the wilting white carnations just seemed stupid in the empty graveyard. He knew that the hot summer sun would fry them tomorrow, but he didn't want to take them back with him either. Really, at this point, all he wanted to do was leave. He'd been flipping the day over and over in his mind for the past few weeks, but now that he was actually here, staring his mother's grave down in the waning red light. His sweat began to cool as the shadows of the surrounding trees lengthened to grant him some mercy from the California sun. He crossed his arms, his tank top and shorts no longer enough to keep him warm as the daylight came to an end. Once again, he chastised himself for not having come earlier in the day.

He'd just been trying to put off the inevitable. No matter what, he knew that he couldn't skip visiting his mother's grave on the anniversary of her death. This year, however, was the first in which he wouldn't have the support of his father. The Sheriff had to work that night, though Stiles could still see the footprints from when he'd come that morning. Now, Stiles wished he hadn't decided it was time for some alone time with his mother. It all suddenly seemed too soon.

Her memory was starting to fade from his day to day life. He no longer thought of her throughout the day, but only once or twice. He could now walk into the kitchen without seeing her reading the newspaper at the table, humming tunelessly. He stopped smelling her perfume every time he walked into his dad's room. The only place that he could still see her was the attic, but he hardly ever went in there. Although it was a fairly unused room in their house, her presence lingered there most. The smell of the old room was probably what kept her memory clinging to his mind; she used the room to dry the herbs she used to grow in the garden. Though she wasn't much of a cook, Stiles' mother made up for her lack of ability by adding generous and flavorful spices to everything. She would even crush up a few flakes of spearmint in his cereal. She always claimed that it would keep him healthy, though Stiles never knew her to be particularly health-conscious. Most of her jars of herbs and spices were still untouched, shelved in the attic, as well as several bundles of herbs that had been drying for years now. Her herb garden was woefully overgrown now, but neither Stiles nor the Sheriff could bring themselves to disturb what was once hers.

All of these memories were making it much harder to face his mom. He sat down on the cool grass, drawing his knees up to his chest. Somehow, it seemed as if no time had passed since the first time he and his dad had come down to see her on the anniversary of her death. He still felt like a sad, confused little kid, wanting nothing more than to run into the tall trees and hide from all of his problems. Back then, he always figured that he'd know the answers once he grew up and matured. He assumed that he would know how to deal with this, that he would know why it happened. The older he got, however, the less sense he could make of it. The only thing that time had done was dull the sharp edge of his grief and make her face harder to conjure up in his mind.

A warm drop fell on his knee. He looked up at the cloudless sky for a moment before he realized that he was crying. Wiping the tears from his face, Stiles choked back a sob. How could he still cry after all this time? After all the pain he'd already gone through? Every year, he was shocked to find that the anniversary was just as painful as every year before. Nothing was any easier, and new challenges arose as the years went by. He found himself realizing different things that his mother could have helped him with, like writing his papers for English or helping him talk to girls. Each year brought fresh pain as he thought of the life that she was missing out on, and the things that she would never be able to see. Tears continued to well in his eyes, despite his efforts to keep them at bay.

Suddenly, a warm hand landed on his bare shoulder, soothing the chilled flesh. He looked up, his tear-stained face hoping to look up and see that his mother was the source of this comforting touch. Instead, Scott stood by his side, his face placid and understanding. Stiles' mouth turned into a hard line, and he took a deep breath through his nose in an attempt to regulate his breathing. "Hey," he said in a small voice, afraid that speaking any louder would make his voice crack.

"Hey," Scott replied, crouching down beside his friend. His dark eyes looked over the tall tombstone, taking in the words that were already familiar to him.

Stiles sighed. "What are you doing here?" he asked obligatorily.

"I dunno," Scott replied, his hand still heavy on Stiles' shoulder. "I knew your dad was working, and I just..."

Silence hung in the air for a moment. "Well, you don't have to do this," Stiles responded. "I'm fine."

"Okay," Scott responded simply, continuing his perusal of the graveyard.

Stiles' mom had always been fond of Scott. She said that she knew he and Stiles were going to be good friends for a long time. Stiles often found that she was right about the things she predicted. He doubted, however, that she would have ever foreseen Scott becoming a werewolf. If she could have only seen the troubles that have taken place in Stiles' world after Scott's transformation, she would have been floored. Stiles felt a little bit better, knowing that he wouldn't have to lie to her. He doubted that he would be able to lie to the sickly form that lied in bed for days at a time for those last few months.

As if he could sense Stiles' thoughts turning dark again, Scott slid his arm around the boy's shoulders while he sat down on the ground, lightly hugging the boy. Stiles looked up at him with his tear-stained eyelashes clumped together, and Scott hugged him tightly to his broad chest. Stiles couldn't deny how much safer he felt in his friend's warm arms, pressed against his hard chest. He felt like he could stay there for days, close to his mom and curled in his best friend's arms. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to luxuriate in the oddly comforting moment.

"How late is your dad working?" Scott asked, his voice rumbling against Stiles' back. Cracking his eyes open, Stiles was confused for a moment as to how he'd come to be lying with his back against Scott's chest, his friend's legs on either side of his own and one arm protectively draped across his pale chest.

"Er- sorry, did I doze off?" Stiles asked, taking stock of the stars above them.

Scott blushed slightly. "Yeah, just for a... few minutes..." Scott replied as Stiles scrambled to his feet. "I didn't mean to wake you, I was just..."

"No, no, it's fine," Stiles replied, stretching his stiff muscles. "And my dad is working all night, he won't be home until the morning."

Scott stood up next to him. "Do you want me to drive you home?" Scott offered.

Stiles shook his head. "No, but thanks..." he said, already feeling bad that his friend went through all of this trouble for him. "I'll just... go now... And, uh, thanks, Scott."

"It was no problem," Scott replied quietly, watching Stiles trudge through the tall grass toward his Jeep. He stood, observing the boy as he made his exit, hoping that he'd turn around and extend himself to Scott in some way. At this point, it was hard for Scott to see the boy he secretly loved going through so much pain. He wanted to help in some way. But as the red lights started to fade in the distance, Stiles didn't even glance in the rear view mirror.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Derek squinted, trying to hide the red reflections the tail lights made in his eyes. Had Stiles looked back, he would've noticed a pair of red eyes watching them, as they had been all night. Being careful to keep downwind and out of smelling distance, Derek watched Scott cradle the sleeping Stiles for hours. A tinge of worry clouded his thoughts as he considered the possibility that Stiles was Scott's mate. If so, this could pose a problem to Derek's plan for making a pack to fend off the Alphas. Banishing the thought until he had more proof, Derek paid closer attention as Scott started running through the woods. He followed the boy, hoping that he was just going home. Derek knew he would be no match for a Stilinski.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles pulled into the empty driveway, feeling his spirits drain as he turned off the engine. The silence of the night was comforting, but he couldn't help feeling empty. Why had he run away from Scott like that? Clearly his friend was trying to be nice and supportive, but Stiles felt the need to push him away. He sometimes wondered if he was sabotaging himself. Perhaps he really just didn't want to be happy.

He fumbled with his keys as he made his way from the car to the door, grateful that his dad had left the air conditioning on as his sweaty skin raised with goosebumps. The clock on the wall informed him that Scott had been quite generous by telling Stiles that he'd only been asleep for a few minutes. It had actually been hours. With the thought of Scott's warm embrace still in his head, Stiles stomped up the stairs and into the bathroom, tossing his tank top on the stairs along the way. Brushing his teeth, he looked at his face, trying to figure out why he was pushing away his best friend. Few people were nice to Stiles, and he wished he'd had the wherewithal to express gratitude to the one person who went above and beyond. Yet he hadn't even thought to offer him a ride. After rinsing out his mouth, he continued to stare at his reflection in the bathroom mirror for a few long moments.

Satisfied that nothing on the outside showed how cruel he could be on the inside in his constant running from pain, Stiles went to his bedroom. He didn't bother turning on the light, instead just unbuttoning his pants and letting them fall to the floor on his way to the bed. Before he hit the mattress, he opened his window to let some air into the room, since the air conditioning hadn't been working on the second floor. He reached under his bed in the dark, pulling out one of the lighter sheets from the area under his bed as he flopped down onto the comforter. The cool sheets felt soothing on his warm, sticky skin.

He thought about Scott, sighing contentedly. His best friend had managed to do exactly what he needed, doing everything exactly right. He was there for Stiles, being understanding but not pushy, and never making Stiles ask for what he needed. Yet all he'd gotten in return was a rebuff. Stiles thought of Scott showing up in his room, once again anticipating his needs before Stiles even knew them. He imagined the boy crawling through the window, his feet bare since shoes only ever got in the way of his running. His tank top clung to his sweaty torso, and his shorts were splattered with mud from the forest floor through which he'd run. Even his familiar, albeit sweaty, smell was comforting.

A sudden depression in the bed made Stiles' eyes flicker open, awakening from his pleasant dream. Somehow, this dream had become a reality. As if conjured from his imagination, Scott was crawling onto the bed next to Stiles. His expression was somber and understanding as he lay face-to-face with his best friend. His head still half convinced that he was dreaming, Stiles smiled peacefully, his friend's presence putting a rest to the turmoil over his angsty denial in the graveyard. Scott smiled back, one hand slipping to Stiles' ribcage and letting his thumb rub back and forth across his skin. The touch of his hot skin and the soft touch of his breath on Stiles' neck lulled the boy back to sleep, feeling as if he had everything he needed right in his bedroom.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

"...and they lived happily ever after," Mrs. Stilinski finished, closing the book and setting it next to her on the bed. She paused for a moment. "Stiles?"

Her eight year old son looked up at her through half-opened lids. "Hmm?"

"I've been meaning to tell you something," she said, resolute but also clearly nervous. "It's about our family. I... can't tell you much. Not now. But we're kind of special. We aren't like other families."

"Because Dad's a sheriff?" Stiles asked sleepily, surprised at how much more tired he was tonight than usual.

"No, not because of that," she said, having had to explain several times why his father had to work long hours. "Actually, your father doesn't even know how special we are. I don't want to worry him with it. But...we have a special history."

"I don't get it," Stiles replied, his head swimming on the verge of sleep.

"You can read all about it, when you're older," his mother responded, looking at her hands. "But the point is... well, we're different. I want you to go into the attic, and look in the cupboard with the big jar of rosemary. Under a little false bottom under the jar, there's a book. I want you to read it."

"Can I do it in the morning, mommy?" Stiles asked, too tired to move.

"No, honey," she said, looking sad. "You can't look at it for a long time. Not until you find your love. I don't want you to read it until your soul mate needs you."

"What?" Stiles asked, confused and tired.

"One day, your soul mate is going to need you. A lot. And you're going to have to save them. I want you to read the book then, and use it to help your loved one," she looked into his eyes as she spoke, a certain sadness in them. "It may mean much more than you think."

Stiles was quiet for a minute, trying to take it all in. "What if I forget?" he asked, wondering how long it would be before he fell in love.

His mother smiled. "You won't forget. But you also won't remember," she said cryptically, earning a confused frown from her son. "Not until you need to. You should live a normal life until then. So you won't remember any of this until the day you need it. I'm going to... wrap you up, sort of. It's called binding. You'll be safe and snug until then." She leaned down, kissing his furrowed brow with a smile. Then, she waved her hand over his eyes. Before the darkness closed in, he saw a clear rock nestled in the palm of her hand as she waved it over his eyes.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Stiles woke up with a start. He felt hot and a bit sweaty, though not unpleasantly so. His sheet was wrapped around his feet, tangled. Another pair of feet were tangled in the white linen, with hairy, tanned toes poking out of the bottom. Stiles arched his neck to look back at Scott, who was pressed up against his back. In their sleep, they had somehow managed to kick off the sheets and arrange themselves in a spooning position. Scott's heavy arm was draped across Stiles' chest, his bare torso hot and sticking to Stiles' back; their combined body heat without any air conditioning had made quite a warm situation. He enjoyed the sensation, though, feeling protected and close to his best friend.

However, something seemed amiss. It took Stiles' sleep-addled mind a moment to figure it out. His entire chest and face turned red as he realized that Scott's morning wood was pressing through his shorts, into Stiles' ass. The boy was suddenly very aware of the fact that he was completely exposed except for a woefully small and tight pair of black briefs. Scott's arm hugged the boy close, pressing their pelvises closer together.

"Uhhhh, Scott?" Stiles said, his head turned around. The tanned boy took a few moments to regain consciousness, his head bleary with tiredness.

"Mmmm, yeah?" he asked, his voice soft and confused.

"You're, uh, a little close," Stiles said frankly.

Scott looked up and down Stiles' pale form for a moment, taking stock of their position. All at once, he realized that his boner was grinding into Stiles' ass. He wrenched his body backwards, away from the boy, and fell on the ground with the sheets tangled around his ankles. Stiles flipped over to look at the boy, lying on the floor, his tanned muscles covered in now-cooling sweat, his hair a wild mess, his hard on very obviously tenting his cargo shorts. The pale boy laughed, both realizing the humor in the situation and wanting to break the awkward silence. Scott laughed too, covering his face with both hands as his taut stomach muscles rippled with laughter.

Stiles got off the bed, helping his friend to his feet. The two of them slept at each other's houses a lot, so it wasn't an uncommon occurrence as they aged. Stiles rifled through his wardrobe, picking out some clothes. Scott went through the backpack of clothes he'd come to leave at Stiles', since it was easier than transporting clothes every few nights. As he picked out an outfit, Stiles' mind wandered to his strange dream. If this really were some sort of repressed memory (which Stiles seriously doubted, but the idea wouldn't stop creeping into his mind), then why would he remember it now? Who was his soul mate? This was coming at a time when he felt pretty certain that it was not Lydia, and he couldn't think of anyone else he was close enough to be in love with.

Opening his mouth, Stiles turned around to tell him about the dream, hoping his friend would just tell him that he was being crazy. The words never passed his lips, however. In front of him, Scott stood, stark naked and hard as he sniffed a pair of red briefs to determine their cleanliness. His hard body still glistened with sweat, and his hair in disarray and his face contorted from the discovery that the underwear in his hand had been worn to lacrosse practice before.

"_No,_" Stiles whispered to himself.

"Huh?" Scott asked, dropping the underwear. Stiles trained his eyes away from the form in front of him. Suddenly, inexplicably, it was clear. There was only one person other than his dad who he could rely on. For all these years, only one person had been there for him. The possibility of love hadn't even occurred to him, but since his mom had suggested the possibility, Stiles now realized that the friendship he'd been harboring all these years was something more.

"Er- nothing," Stiles said, keeping his eyes away from the naked boy in front of him. He'd seen Scott naked plenty of times before, but suddenly everything about the boy seemed different. The comfortable, easy relationship now included an element of sexual tension. "I'm just gonna go change...in the bathroom."

Before Scott could question him, he darted out of the door and into the bathroom. Locking the door behind him, he willed his heart to slow down. Surely Scott would be able to hear it. How was he going to keep this new secret from a werewolf? How had his life gotten infinitely more complicated in the last five seconds?

Setting the clothes down, Stiles looked into the mirror. He expected to see a tired, drawn face, haggard from the difficult anniversary the day before. However, his cheeks were pink and his eyes lively with the excitement of a love. How had he never realized before? Stiles just assumed that's how friendship felt. He figured that the element of attraction was just admiration of the way Scott's physique had developed. Had one weird dream really manage to change this much of his life?

His vision blurred, causing his image in the mirror to warp. Stiles furrowed his brow. His vision wasn't blurring. The mirror was. The mirror was melting! He jumped back several feet, staring at the substance oozing down the wall where his mirror had once hung. Gingerly reaching a hand out, Stiles found that there was heat emanating from the liquid mirror. He looked around, trying to figure out what to do. Now that his mind was distracted, he could feel the heat leaving his face, and similarly leaving the mirror. The sticky substance slowed its crawl toward the sink, returning to room temperature. Stiles stepped closer, looking at his now wavy reflection. In reality, the mirror had only sagged a bit before returning to a normal state. Touching it, Stiles felt that it was hard again.

He dressed quickly, leaving the bathroom as quickly as possible. Running down the stairs, he made a beeline for the kitchen. He took a moment, letting his breathing return to normal as he leaned over the sink, trying not to vomit. What the hell had just happened? Possibilities scrolled through Stiles mind, moving faster than he could keep up with. Maybe the sun had just gotten too hot through the window. Maybe it was some sort of freak astronomical moment in which poles switched and weird stuff started happening. Maybe he was seeing things, and nothing had actually happened. He couldn't grasp hold of one thought long enough to make it stick.

Scott cautiously entered the kitchen. Stiles looked up, his eyes desperately seeking some kind of sense in his best friend's face. His heart broke as he suddenly remembered the fact that he was in love with Scott. The boy seemed so perfect, coming through the kitchen with worry on his face. Worry and concern for his friend.

"What's that weird smell?" Scott asked. "It's like... Christmas cookies."

Stiles sniffed the air, still confused. "I don't know. I don't smell anything. But I... something happened..." Rather than try to explain, Stiles took Scott by the hand and led him to the bathroom.

"Oh God, Stiles, I really don't wanna see whatever-" Scott started, stopping when he saw the warped mirror. "What happened to it?"

"I have no idea," Stiles replied. "I was just looking in it and suddenly it started to... melt."

Scott reached out and touched the reflective surface. It looked similar to how magma looks after it cools; a liquid shape but solid to the touch. "It reeks of that weird cookie smell," Scott muttered, almost to himself.

"Dude, get over your cravings, my mirror just went all Dali for no good reason," Stiles said, staring at it.

"I mean, it doesn't make any sense, but... doesn't weird stuff just happen sometimes?" Scott asked, his face taking on the dense look that Stiles had come to know over the years. Somehow, the dimwitted expression made Stiles feel a bit better about being in love with him. It was still the same Scott, and he still felt the same way toward him, he just had a more accurate name for it now.

"I... guess," Stiles responded, ready to just let the situation go. He knew, at least, that he wasn't crazy.

"Well, just tell your Dad when he gets home, I guess," Scott said, still looking at the mirror with disbelief. He smirked. "I mean, it isn't any weirder than having a werewolf sleep over."


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles sat down at the table and Scott started taking out pans and ingredients. Stiles slumped down in his chair, trying to make sense of the day so far. Not 24 hours ago, he had been blissfully unaware of his feelings for Scott, and therefore felt not compulsion to impress him, he hadn't dreamed of his mother in years, and he was firmly of the belief that mirrors did not spontaneously change into a liquid state. Now, all of these factors in his life had changed drastically.

Something about his dream nagged him. Did all of these strange changes have to do with what his mother was talking about in his dream? Maybe it all boiled down to the way in which his mom's side of the family was different. He didn't know anyone else on her side of the family very well. Most of them lived either on the East coast or in Germany, so he didn't see them much. What could be so different about them?

His train of thought was interrupted by Scott gently setting a plate of eggs and toast in front of him on the table. Stiles looked up, caught off guard. "Oh, thanks Scott," Stiles said, daringly only to allow his eyes a brief second of contact with Scott's.

"No problem," Scott replied, sitting down across from him with his own plate. They both ate quietly for a moment, but there was a definite sense of tension. "So... are you going to tell me what's going on?"

Stiles looked up, swallowing a mouth full of dry toast. "What do you mean?" he asked, crumbs flying from his mouth. He blushed and started wiping them off of the table and onto the floor. Normally, he wouldn't care if he spit food all over Scott, but somehow things had changed since realizing his true feelings. He felt like he had to maintain some sort of posterity in order to impress him.

"You've been weird all morning," Scott said, looking concerned.

"Well, my mirror started melting while I was looking at it, so yeah, I think I may be just a touch on the weird side right now," Stiles countered.

"You were acting weird before that," Scott said, starting to lose confidence in his pursuit. "Why did you want to change in the bathroom? And why did it smell weird in there? And why didn't you-"

"What the hell is this?" Stiles barked, annoyed at all of the inconvenient questions. "If you're looking to stage an inquisition, then just skip straight to the thumb screws."

"I'm just... worried about you, Stiles," Scott said, making the pale boy simultaneously blush with love for his friend and frown with guilt from having snapped at him. "Is it about your mom?"

"Well, yeah, kinda," Stiles replied, measuring how much he gave away. It was always a good bit more difficult with a werewolf who could hear your heart beat and breathing patterns. "It's just been... tough, dealing without her."

They were both silent for a minute. Scott stood up. "Well, if you need to talk you know you always have me," he said, gathering the plates and putting them in the sink.

"Yeah," Stiles responded as his friend gathered his things and started making his way toward the door. "And, uhm, thanks for being there for me. I really appreciate it."

Stiles didn't need to be a werewolf to notice how much more cheerfully Scott started walking after hearing this. He practically skipped out of the house. The warm sun felt good on his skin as he walked down the street, grateful to be leaving early enough that his bare feet wouldn't have to endure the pain of a hot summer sidewalk. He was in high spirits, and would have let out a joyful howl if he hadn't been in a residential neighborhood. Smiling broadly, he stepped into the woods, his heart bounding with joy. At the time, Scott had only wanted to make sure that his friend was okay. Now, he wondered if it had scored him a few points toward becoming Stiles' boyfriend. He already knew that Stiles was his mate, but he wasn't sure if the feeling was mutual yet. Especially just after he woke up, since his morning wood seemed to put Stiles off so much. He was worried that it made things awkward between them, and began worrying if he'd maybe been mumbling Stiles' name in his sleep again. After all, he'd been dreaming of Stiles when he got the boner. Waking up with it grinding against his ass was an unexpected pleasure.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Stiles turned around, getting half way down the stairs before stopping. Turning his head back toward the attic door, he bit his lip. He had to look. Yes, it was stupid and would probably lead to nothing, but he had to know. The possibility of a repressed memory coming out in a dream wasn't entirely impossible, even if he'd had no reason to repress the memory. Clenching his fists, Stiles turned around and marched up the stairs, firmly planting a hand on the doorknob.

Once again, he faltered. Going into the attic was hard for Stiles, especially now, the day after the anniversary of her death. The entire room seemed to breathe her energy. He could still remember the long hours they spent in the little room, him helping her to string up bundles of herbs to dry, labeling different jars, her teaching him the names of all the plants. Steeling himself, he pushed through the door and up the final stairs.

He stopped short at the last step, looking around. Somehow, all of the anticipation had made him expect to see something happening, like her ghost taking down bundles of dry herbs. But the room was remarkably still, with a heavy silence weighing down on his shoulders. It was almost oppressively uneventful. Climbing the final step, his feet slid through the dust of the old wooden floors.

It was obvious that the space had remained relatively untouched for some years. Dust settled thickly on everything, with big chunks floating through the shafts of morning light coming through the skylight. Stiles lifted the edge of his t-shirt over his nose to try to keep from sneezing, though he did end up sneezing a few times. He looked around the room for the first time in years, curious. He touched some of the old drying herbs, which crumbled under the slightest touch. His mother would have been appalled that they'd let perfectly good herbs go to waste. The current overgrown state of the garden would have given her an aneurism.

The room was simple, with wooden floors, a few cabinets tucked away in the back, a table with two chairs, and a large steamer trunk where they'd put most of her things when she died. He opened one of the cabinets on the far wall, looking for the jar of rosemary. All of the shelves on this cabinet were covered with crystals, rocks, and gems. Stiles couldn't recall ever having seen his mother use anything like that. However, a memory from his dream flashed through his head, in which she was holding a clear stone. Looking over the array of minerals, he found the crystal from his dream. He picked it up and examined it, convinced that it looked exactly like the clear rock in her hand, shapeless and jagged. Without thinking, he pocketed the stone and moved on to another cupboard.

These shelves were filled with jars of herbs, and Stiles started on the arduous process of going through all of the dusty bottles with handmade labels, looking for the rosemary. Some of the herbs seemed strange, and he couldn't remember them ever having been in their garden. Others he could remember helping his mom grow and dry, storing them in little jars for future use. He went through two more cabinets before finding a jar with a faded label reading "Rosemary." He set it on the table behind him and started pressing on the shelf where it had been sitting. Eventually, he found a little hole. Pulling up on the odd indentation, a piece of wood came out of the shelf, scattering some of the jars that had been on top. Nestled inside the hollow within the shelf was an old looking book. He slid his fingers into the space between the book and its resting place, feeling as if he were exhuming a dusty grave as he wrenched the ancient tome from the place it had been hiding for years.

He could feel a certain power within the book as he set it down on the table. Somehow, there was a definite and indefinable weight in the moment. He could feel the importance of what he was doing. Stiles considered putting the book back, going downstairs, and pretending the whole thing had never happened. Fighting the familiar urge to run away from heavy situations, Stiles instead sat down and looked at the book. It was old, cracked brown leather with dark, simple letters imprinted into the cover. The bits of faded, shiny gold along the edges of some of the letters suggested that it had once been written in gold leaf, but had been worn away through many years of use. They were difficult to read, but he could make out the word "Stilinski" on the cover.

Lifting the cover, he was surprised to see that the pages inside looked like they had come from a brand new book. The paper looked old, but not aged, in a style quite unlike the cheap white stuff he was used to seeing. On top there was a folded letter, written on paper that looked much more modern. His name was scrawled on the front in black ink. He recognized his mother's handwriting. With shaking hands, he opened the letter, realizing that he was about to find out the secret that had lain dormant in his mind for years.

_Dear Stiles,_

_ I've thought about how to start this letter for a long time, and I've decided that it would be easiest to just come out and say it. Some of the fairy tales that you've heard are true, or at least have some truth to them. There is almost always a kernel of truth in the myths and legends that have been passed down for generations. Our family, along with others of our kind, has inspired many of these stories. We are witches. You, Stiles, are a witch. I don't mean in the religious sense of the word; there is a distinction between the two, since somehow paganism has gotten intermingled with our lore. I mean that you are one of the few people with the ability to manipulate elements and reality._

_ This book, our family grimoire, should help you discover your distinct abilities and harness them to our control. Our grimoire is quite old, so treat it with respect. It has survived some very tumultuous times in our family, including the Trier Witch Trials. But I will leave the history up to your other relatives, who I encourage you to meet. Up until recently, you've been bound so that you wouldn't discover your powers. I knew that I would not be there to help you understand and use your magic, so I thought it would be safer to keep them from you until you needed them. And now you do, Stiles._

_ One of my abilities is to foresee the future. That is how I knew that I would die before I could teach you about our family. That is also how I knew that you would need your powers in the future. A few small things have probably bubbled up to the surface before I allowed you to remember, like having dreams that come true, but now your powers are unleashed. My visions are far from exact, they're more like symbols that need interpretation. When I first brought you home from the hospital, I saw the clearest vision I'd ever had._

_ You were running through the woods. I knew it was you, even though you were older. A wolf was with you, running. You both stopped when you came across a larger wolf. A crack appeared in the ground, running from the larger wolf to the smaller one, threatening to swallow the one you were running with. But you pulled him out and cast the larger one in. I'm still unsure of the specifics, but I remember it quite clearly even now. You had a black snakeroot in your hand, which symbolizes protection and strength for the weak. You'll find that many herbs and plants are useful for amplifying your innate powers; they were something of a specialty for me._

_ Stiles, I want you to know that I treasure every moment that we've spent together. You are my moon, and your father my sun. Know that I will be there to watch you grow up, even if you can't see me. The love of a mother never dies._


	4. Chapter 4

Scott stood at the door of the Stilinski house. It was weird for him, feeling nervous in place that he usually felt so comfortable. Stiles had been avoiding him ever since the anniversary of his mother's death; they'd only seen each other briefly around town for the past few days before Stiles darted off with some excuse. His best friend wouldn't even invite him over when his dad was gone, like he usually did, nor would he answer Scott's calls or texts. He was worried that he'd come on too strong, and now Stiles was freaked out. Stiles had never even really given him an indication that there was more than anything but friendship between them, and Scott started feeling stupid for seeing more than was actually there. He was making up signs in his head that Stiles was in love with him, and had gone too far in his pursuit of the boy. Now he just wanted to hold on to their friendship. Squaring his shoulders resolutely, he knocked on the door.

After a few moments, Stiles swung the door open, looking both excited and distracted. Scott was taken slightly aback. "Hey, Scott!" Stiles said, enthused. Scott wondered if his best friend had gotten into drugs recently. "What's up?"

"Er-nothing," Scott said, having expected Stiles to be angry to see him, or to try and avoid him.

"You've got great timing, come in," Stiles said, backing out of the doorway to allow his friend entry. Scott cautiously entered. The air smelled different, with a bunch of faint herbal smells mixing together in the air. He doubted that he would've noticed without his wolf senses.

"Is everything... okay?" Scott asked as he followed Stiles into his bedroom. He sat on the bed and Stiles sat in his computer chair.

"Okay?" Stiles asked, looking into Scott's eyes for the first time. "Yeah, why?"

"I mean... I've barely seen you around lately, and you haven't been returning my calls or anything," Scott said, trying not to betray his hurt. Stiles turned around, picking up his cell phone from the desk. He noticed the numerous messages and missed calls. His frenetic energy seemed to die down as he realized how much he'd been neglecting his best friend.

"I'm fine," he said, smiling softly. "Sorry I've been AWOL, I've just been really busy with... studying. But I'm done now, so I'll have more time."

"Studying for what?" Scott asked, annoyed. He figured his friend was lying, since they didn't have school for months. Stiles opened his mouth to reply, the words catching in his throat. His eyes searched for a way to explain, and looked pained at having hurt his best friend. Scott mollified. "Does this have to do with your mom?"

"Er... yes," Stiles replied, surprised that Scott had known that much.

"Listen, I know it's hard, but this isn't the way to deal with it," Scott said, his eyes fully of sympathy and worry. Stiles looked confused. "I know that going to her grave alone was tough. But you can't just hole yourself up in here. You have to keep living."

"Her... death?" Stiles asked, still a bit confused.

"And I know that she wouldn't want you to turn to any... illegal substances to deal with the pain," Scott said, deciding to broach the subject.

"You think I'm on drugs!?" Stiles asked, laughing. "No matter how much I miss my mom, I'm not gonna go coocoo for cocoa puffs. I've just been busy with a kind of... project. But I think I'm done with it now, so we can hang out."

"Are you sure?" Scott asked, worried. "So everything is okay?"

"Everything is fine, Scott. I'm sorry I scared you. I didn't really even realize I was doing it," Stiles said, kind of embarrassed, both for worrying the boy he loved and for ignoring him. "My dad isn't coming home until the morning, you wanna spend the night?"

Scott smiled broadly, the crooked little grin melting Stiles' heart. "Sure."

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

All day and all of the night, Stiles had been trying to find the right moment to explain to Scott what he'd been doing. Somehow, it never quite worked out. When he opened his mouth to tell him, Scott always seemed to say something first. He'd managed to actually whisper it to him shortly after they'd both gone to bed, but his only response was a gentle snoring. They were having fun, and Stiles didn't want to ruin the mood by bringing up serious subjects. Instead, they had a good time, like they used to, before Stiles found out he was a witch, before he had realized he loved Scott, and before he'd taken an entire week to study the grimoire.

He hadn't realized how much time he was spending reading the old spellbook until Scott had shown up. His past week had been comprised mostly of reading the old text, which he was surprised to find he could read. Something in his blood understood the words that his brain couldn't comprehend. A lot of it was about different uses for different herbs, minerals, and substances. The parts which he was more interested in were the chapters on reading and harnessing the natural powers of the earth. Looking deep inside of himself, he'd found that this was definitely one of his stronger points. In fact, he'd accidentally been conjuring heat from his panic over his love for Scott when he melted the mirror. When Scott had smelled Christmas cookies, he'd actually been smelling anise. Most spells let off a scent much like a plant, and they usually smelled like particular herbs or flowers. Stiles noticed that most of his spells had a hint of anise in them, though there were more layers of scent as his spells became more complex. The grimoire had taught him how to listen to the earth and become one with the natural flow of the elements. Through this, he'd managed to conjure fire, move the wind, make plants grow, and a host of other talents.

The book said that every witch has a point in his or her life in which he or she taps into their true power. Stiles was beginning to think that his mother had foreseen this point in his life. Clearly, it had something to do with Scott. He hadn't even realized that he was in love with the boy, but his feelings were strong enough to break his mother's binding spell. The book mentioned several other creatures in the world, including both the werewolf and kanima with which he was familiar. His family had written a few notes in the margins of the book throughout the years, and Stiles felt connected with them as he read each one. Some were in languages he couldn't read, but he managed to understand their meaning through some power he didn't yet understand. Many of the notes on evading hunters were written during the Trier Witch Trials in Germany, which he'd come to learn were an integral part of his family history as well as the largest execution of witches in European history. Many of those killed were true witches, though the majority were poor souls convicted without reason. Real witches were better at hiding and evading hunters, though they were still frequently caught.

Stiles wished he could just tell Scott all of this and get his opinion on it, but he couldn't bring himself to do it all night. Finally, in the morning, he decided he'd tell Scott before he left. Usually, Scott slept on the floor, but tonight Stiles suggested that they sleep in the same bed, like they had the other night. Scott seemed completely willing to go along with this suggestion, much to Stiles' joy. Scott woke up first, awakening Stiles as he fumbled out of the bed. They both got dressed, and Stiles was in a good enough mood to change in the same room as Scott. Both checked the other out without his friend's knowledge.

They both went downstairs, and Stiles sat at the table while Scott started making breakfast. He checked his phone while he cooked.

"Hey Scott?" Stiles said nervously, finally wanting to tell him what he'd been doing the past week.

"Yeah?" Scott responded, still cooking.

"Can I tell you something?" Stiles asked, circling the issue.

"Can it wait?" Scott asked, looking worried. Stiles furrowed his brow. "I just got a text from Derek saying that I need to go to his place immediately. He's probably just gonna ask me to join his pack again, but I still should make sure it's not something more urgent."

"Uhm... yeah, sure, it can wait," Stiles said, deflating. He probably should've told Scott that it couldn't wait, but he couldn't bring himself to do it.

The tanned boy have his shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he headed out of the front door, his bare feet scraping on the gravel as he made his way to the nearby woods. Stiles went to the door and watched him walk away. He watched as the boy's lean, tanned form disappeared around the corner, his heart aching to watch the boy leave. With a wistful sigh, Stiles pushed himself out of the doorway and walked along his front lawn, a wary eye on the dark clouds overhead. This was one of those days when you could tell that there was going to be heavy rain on and off throughout the day, making the temperatures go from stifling humidity to chilly wetness. It was the kind of day in which it would be too warm to wear a rain coat, but cold when the rainfall hit your warm, bare skin. Turning the corner, Stiles saw where his mother's herb garden started in the back yard. He walked through the plants for the first time in years, naming them as he did. Many of them were choked with weeds, but some had taken over their area, like the mint. He'd learned the names of most of the herbs by now from the grimoire. Somehow, the information stuck in his mind better than anything else he'd ever read. He stopped in front of a dead patch. There was a little round circle of dirt, where no weeds were growing. For some reason, everything refused to grow in a circle around a foot in diameter. Everything, that is, except one lone plant in the exact center of the circle. Leaning close, Stiles' heart dropped. He recognized the new little plant reaching out from the earth, with its distinct dark leaves and little white spires of flowers. It was a black snakeroot.

Suddenly, the obvious puzzle clicked in Stiles' mind. Scott was the wolf with whom he was running in his mother's prophecy, this had been clear to him. He'd also had a sneaking suspicion that Derek was the bigger wolf. The fact that the ground cracked open in front of him clearly meant that he intended to do some sort of harm to Scott. His mother had told him as much in his dream. He would need to save the one he loved. In her vision, he was holding a black snakeroot. She'd assumed that the only significance it held was its meaning. But Stiles saw the poignancy of the plant. It meant that Scott was in danger right now.


	5. Chapter 5

Scott was wary as he walked through the door of the Hale house. Despite his planned attentiveness, Derek was still able to catch him off guard, springing from behind the door just a second before Scott could react. Wrapping his hand around Scott's throat, he drove the boy into the wall beside the door. Isaac and Peter materialized on the stairs, watching the scene unfold. Scott shifted, clawing at Derek's arms and fighting to be released.

"Stop struggling," Derek said, his voice booming with authority. Scott realized that he wasn't getting anywhere, and pressed his back into the wall, trying to at least minimize the Alpha's hold on him.

"What the hell, Derek?" Scott squeaked, his voice raspy under the Alpha's vice.

"This is it. I don't have any more time to sit around and wait for you," Derek snarled, gripping his hand more tightly against the Beta's throat. "Either you're going to join my pack, or you're going to die tonight."

Scott managed to scowl, despite his face turning a desperate shade of bluish red. His throat was far too constricted to talk, but he managed to mouth a clear _Fuck you_ to Derek. Isaac snorted, and Peter punched him in the arm.

"Listen, Scott, maybe I haven't quite explained myself well enough," Derek said, leading the boy by the throat across the room and slamming him into another wall, making it crack beneath Scott's back. "See, now that Erica and Boyd are gone, I'm down to half a team. I need manpower, Scott. I've got a pack of angry Alphas in town, ready to tear us all to shreds. Now, I can't have Omegas running around town. That's a liability, especially since half of the population of Beacon Hills seems to be trying to kill us lately. So I can either take you in as part of my pack, or I can make sure that you don't get in my way."

He released his grip on the boy's throat just enough to let him speak. "You know, Derek," Scott started, his voice cracking and gravelly, "that's not much of an ultimatum. Either you kill me, or I die as your Beta. You're not much of an Alpha, and I'm pretty sure that all you're just going to manage to get us all killed by the pack of Alphas."

Derek gripped the boy's throat tighter again, his claws now angrily digging into the back of Scott's neck. "Scott, you're being an idiot. You think you know anything about being an Alpha? You think you know how to lead a pack? You forget that you haven't been a wolf all that long. Has it even been a year?"

The pressure was released from Scott's throat as Derek let go of him. They stood face to face for a moment before Derek landed a punch squarely in the boy's gut, sending him flying through the already cracked dry wall. Scott landed on the other side, his claws scraping the wood of the floor beneath him as he slid on the dusty powder from the wall. He instinctively crouched low, his eyes flashing yellow as his body transformed into his Beta form. Derek stepped through the hole in the wall, his red eyes also gleaming in his Beta form. He scanned the room, his prey momentarily lost in the dust. This was just enough time for Scott to pounce, digging his claws into Derek's chest and driving the pair to the ground.

Derek shoved the boy off of him, his neck narrowly avoiding Scott's teeth as he sent the boy flying across what was once his living room. The Beta crashed against the couch, wood splintering around him as he fell. Derek leaped across the room, lunging at Scott. The boy picked up a piece of the broken couch, managing to shield himself from Derek's impact with the length of wood. He used the moment of Derek's instability to push him off, rolling the man onto the floor as he regained his own footing.

A thought crossed Scott's mind: If Derek had wanted him dead, he would have already killed him. The Alpha was toying with him, trying to prove his ability to lead so that Scott would join him. He would take his time, drawing out the fight in order to give Scott an opportunity to reconsider.

"You know, with someone like you on our team, we could really put the Alpha pack in their place," Derek said, unwittingly confirming Scott's belief as he climbed onto his feet.

The man lunged at Scott once again, this time with a little more vigor. Scott timed the man's trajectory just right, managing to topple their balance just as their bodies made impact. This resulted in the pair rolling across the floor, Derek's claws drawing blood from deep wounds in Scott's shoulders. The Beta managed to stop their rolling while he was on top, springing up from the floor and making a mad dash to the front door as blood trailed behind him.

Scott's timing was perfect, and Derek wouldn't be able to catch up with him if he'd made it to the woods. Unfortunately, Peter seemed to materialize out of nowhere, blocking the front door. Derek grabbed Scott's ribcage, drawing long, deep lacerations in his sides as he spun the boy around. He landed a heavy blow across the boy's face, sending him skidding across the foyer as the taste of blood bloomed in his mouth. With only survival on his mind, Scott's hands searched for the hallway. At this point, Derek was slow, taking his time in the last round in order to give Scott one last chance to join his pack. Scott sought to use this to his advantage, numbly fumbling toward the back door.

He'd forgotten that Isaac had also been present, and now the boy sneered at him, leaning against the back door. Scott stumbled forward, his head woozy from blood loss and the last blow to face. Isaac watched with pity, completely off guard as Scott dug his claws deep into the boy's stomach. Shock spreading across his face, he moved out of the way enough for Scott to touch the door handle. Derek crouched behind him, delivering a razor-sharp swipe to his backs of his knees that sent him sprawling across the floor.

With every weak breath, Scott could feel sharp pain in his sides and racking his shoulders. Lying on his back, he gnashed his teeth and blindly swiped as he felt Derek's presence near. The man straddled him, pinning down his arms as he leaned down so that his lips were level with Scott's ear. He nipped the boy's throat lightly, demarcating where he would land the last, fatal blow.

"So, Scott," he whispered into the boy's ear, "this is it, do or die. Are you really gonna throw away your life?"

Scott's tongue felt thick in his mouth, and blood trickled down his throat. His vision was hazy, and all of the strength had drained from his body. He turned his head slightly toward Derek, his eyes settling on the bleary image of a werewolf in front of him. "Y-You'll never... be my Alpha..." he wheezed weakly, and Derek thought he saw a slight grin on the boy's face.

Rage boiling inside of him, Derek prepared to deal the final blow. Scott closed his eyes, preparing for death. Stretching his jaws wide open to reveal his rows of sharp fangs, he lowered his lips just above Scott's already-bleeding throat. Suddenly, a change in the atmosphere of the room gave him pause. He rapidly became aware that something was slightly off. Isaac and Peter seemed to feel it, too. For half a second, the entire world seemed to become silent and still as everyone analyzed the new changes. A spicy smell, like anise and saffron, precluded the sudden gush of wind that caused all of the windows to shatter and doors to open, blowing the dust and ash of Derek's lost life out of the house with it. Isaac and Peter gathered around Derek, crouching low and shielding their eyes.

When the wind died down, a figure was standing in the middle of the room who had not previously been there. As if borne of the wind, Stiles had materialized and was now staring down the pack of wolves with vengeance burning in his eyes. He narrowed his sights on Derek. The Alpha looked up from his beaten prey, grave understanding in his red eyes. His family had known about the Stilinski's power since they'd moved to Beacon Hills, and he knew that if Stiles ever found his mother's power, then he wouldn't stand a chance of defying him. He'd hoped that his bond with Scott would be weak, and that he could manage to force Scott's decision before Stiles found his abilities, but it seemed that he was too late. "Damn," Derek said aloud, mostly to himself.

Before the man could say another word, Stiles pointed at him and sent him crashing backwards, a strong gust of wind blowing him clear across the room and driving him into the wall. He took a moment to close his eyes, concentrating on encouraging the air in the room to continue pelting Derek while simultaneously calling entropic forces to the wood in the wall against which the Alpha was pinned. The boards of the wall rotted beneath Derek's weight, crumbling behind him as the continuous stream of air pushed him out of the house. Stiles lowered his arm and opened his eyes, satisfied with his show of power. As the energies in the room settled, the spicy scents of anise and saffron mixed strangely with the pungent, woody odor of cypress. Though it would've been only a faint whiff at most

for an ordinary human, the supernatural creatures within the Hale house could smell it in every dusty corner and rotting floorboard. The smell of magic stuck to the energies called, and witches and werwolves alike could smell it strongly.

Stiles confidently walked over to his lover, concern creasing his face as he bent down. He cradled Scott's head in his hand, elevating it as the boy choked on his own blood. Setting his mouth in a hard, determined line, Stiles lightly touched a spot on the boy's forehead with the tip of his index finger, feeling Scott's third eye. This portal to the boy's innermost workings, Stiles had learned, was the most private part of a person's body to witches. By intruding on this spot, Stiles could delve into every part of Scott that he wished to see. He delved deeply, following the channels and flows of his body until he found the dark, feral workings within the boy.

While he did this, Isaac peered through the rotten hole in the wall, looking out at his Alpha. Derek was dusting himself off with the help of Peter, who had gone out to help his nephew. The pair seemed grim, clearly defeated. He looked over at his two friends, Stiles crouched over Scott. They didn't seem all that threatening. Derek would certainly be impressed if he could sneak up on the pair and serve them up to the Alpha. There was no way that Stiles' human hearing would be able to hear him if he used his wolf agility to creep in closer. He slowly neared the pair, claws extended as he looked over Stiles' shoulder. A sudden flash of heat and light stopped Isaac in his tracks, making him lean back as flames erupted from the floor to surround the two boys in a circle. He turned and ran through the opening in the wall, his tail figuratively between his legs as he joined the Hales in retreat.

Stiles released his grip on the ring of fire around the pair, allowing it to die out and leaving a scorched circle on the floor around the pair so that he could focus once again on healing his lover. Delving back into his psyche, Stiles found the wolf part of Scott. He could see the moonlight in the boy's blood, and the parts of him that were infected by the pack-related disease. Stiles carefully untangled the Alpha energy flow that was wrapped around Scott's immune system flow, allowing him to heal with werewolf speed despite the fact that the wounds were inflicted by an Alpha. The third eye allowed witches to access information inside of a person, and to see certain flows of energy and parts inside of their body. It was like going through a person with a medical camera, except he saw in energy and symbols rather than organs and fluids.

Stiles quickly retreated from within the boy, drawing his sight back into his finger and removing it from Scott's forehead. His stomach clenched with nerves as he sat back and waited for the boy to either heal or die. He wasn't confident in his ability to deal with human DNA, especially since he'd only practiced on frogs and cats thus far. Humans were much more difficult, especially werewolves. All he could do at this point was hope that Scott started to heal.

A rush of emotions suddenly caught up with Stiles. Thus far, he'd been simply determined to help the boy he loved. Now the dam broke, and all of the fear, worry, and doubt that he'd been ignoring washed through his body. He fought back tears, willing the water to stay inside of him. He had to focus on willing Scott to heal. He had to think of someone other than himself. He watched intently, choking back both sobs and bile as he fought to contain the emotions ripping through him. This was no time for falling apart. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, Stiles tapped into the deep well of calmness and confidence that he'd visited so often as a child after his mother's death. He idly wondered if even then he'd been showing signs of magical ability, using his powers to fight off his panic attacks. Now he implemented the familiar sensation in order to regain control.

It happened suddenly, as if it had taken Scott's body a few moments to register its new ability to heal. Some of the smaller cuts on his face, arms, and chest shrank and disappeared, leaving only a trail of drying blood. Stiles bounced to his feet, tears now freely running down his face as he celebrated his victory. With a relieved sigh, he scooped Scott into his arms, willing the air around the heavy boy to lighten his load. Hugging the damp, bloody mess of a werewolf to his chest, Stiles smiled as he turned and walked out of the house. Leaving the musty, crumbling relic behind them, Stiles and Scott stepped out into a bracingly warm evening. Bluish grey clouds held the light of the day within them, dropping a light rain on the pair, but promising more to come. In the distance, the clouds broke to show a purple sky, a crown set with with silver stars, beckoning the pair.

Stiles' lungs felt more open and free as they left the dank house and breathed in the wet air. Scott's breathing seemed more regular and less labored, too. The rain washed some of the blood of of his tanned skin and torn clothes. His eyes flickered open, dark and confused. Registering Stiles' face, and the warm, wet embrace of his skin, Scott's face settled into a mask of serenity. Stiles looked down at him, tears mingling with the increasing summer rain as he smiled. Scott's wet hair fell back against the boy's pale arm, giving a constant gentle reminder to keep the air around Scott lifting him upward.

"Derek?" Scott started, confusion marring his face. "Am I dead?"

"No," Stiles said, making an effort to withhold snarky remarks for the touching moment. "Derek's taken care of. And you're alive and healing."

"But..." Scott was silent for a moment, digesting everything. He looked around at the green trees, dripping warm rain on them as they made their way back to the suburbs. "So, this isn't heaven?"

Stiles looked ahead, training his eyes on the walk through the woods ahead of them. Clearly, Scott's brain was still recovering fro being jostled around and knocked unconscious. "No, this isn't quite heaven."

Scott was silent for a moment once again, still trying to get a grip on the situation. "So... then... you saved me?" he asked, looking up at Stiles once again. He wished that he could walk. He didn't like feeling as if he was burdening the boy he loved. However, when he squirmed gently, the jolting shots of pain reverberating within his body informed him that walking would be quite impossible at the moment.

Taking his turn, Stiles walked a few paces in stony silence. His jaw was tense, and Scott could hear that his his breathing had all but stopped. "Yeah," he responded. "I guess I did."

"But... why?" Scott asked, not missing a beat this time.

Stiles stopped walking, looking up at the rainfall, as if he were torn by indecision. He looked down at Scott, his short hair flopping down and plastering itself to his forehead. For a moment, he considered lying. But, looking down into the boy's honest brown eyes, with his crooked jaw and earnest expression, looking almost helpless with his wet hair falling back from his face in thick tendrils. A pang in his heart told him that he could never lie to the boy. Scott could sense tension welling in the boy. Stiles squared his shoulders and took a deep breath, reaffixing his gaze into Scott's eyes.

"Because I love you," he answered frankly.


	6. Chapter 6

By the time that the duo flopped through the doorway, thoroughly soaked through so that every piece of clothing dragged down toward the floor, as if repelled by their skin, the storm cloud had swollen to thick, black behemoths. Rivers of rainwater ran down the streets and across the sidewalks, making the boys' shoes squeak and squelch on the hardwood floors of the foyer. Stiles tracked mud through the house as he brought the dripping boy upstairs and into his room. Scott was shivering, making his wounds scream out in pain. Stiles gently set him on the bed.

"S-S-S-S-So you can... make... m-m-magic?" Scott stammered, still freezing cold. Stiles had more or less explained the situation to Scott on the way back, retelling the entire tangled story between booming cracks of thunder.

Rather than responding to Scott's question, he set a flaming ball of fire in the air next to Scott, floating above the boy to warm him. Moving as slowly and gently as possible, Stiles set to work on removing the soggy clothes from Scott's well-defined frame. "How are your wounds feeling?" Stiles asked.

"It looks like they've all healed, but it still hurts," Scott said, wincing. Stiles smiled at the boy's cute, pained expression.

Rolling his eyes at how corny he was being, Stiles continued to gently work the t-shirt over Scott's aching shoulders. "They've healed on the outside, but you're still bleeding inside," he explained, still able to see the angry marks in his energy flows. "I took took the Alpha control out of you, so you'll heal regularly. But Derek still..."

Stiles stopped short, pausing in his nurse duties as well as his dialog. Scott looked at his face and saw his jaw clenching and unclenching. He could hear the blood coursing father through his veins. The boy's breath was hitched in his throat.

"I'll get over it," Scott said. "Especially with you as my nurse."

Stiles lightened up. "Do you think I should get a little outfit? With heels and a poufy skirt?"

Scott grimaced. "Aw, dude, now I'm picturing my mom in that!"

Stiles also cringed at the thought. "Ohh, why did you have to share that? Couldn't you keep your Oedipus complex in your own head?" Stiles said, his face contorting in disgust. Scott smiled at the boy. He couldn't help thinking his overdramatic reactions were cute. He liked the way Stiles mouth stretched and snapped while making faces, like a rubber band. Stiles noticed he was being ogled, and awkwardly set back to his work. "I better be getting overtime for this."

A moment of comfortable quiet pervaded, accented by the hard patter of the storm outside and the occasional burst of thunder.. Stiles finally managed to wrangle Scott's t-shirt over his head with minimal movement of the boy, and moved on to his soaking wet shoes and socks. Scott lay still, trying to compartmentalize the pain echoing through his body. He thought of Stiles, and how the boy had come to his rescue, like a knight on horseback. He hadn't realized that after all these years, his best friend shared his secret love.

As if picking up on Scott's thoughts, Stiles broke the silence. "Sorry... about what I told you," he said nervously. "You know, earlier. That was kinda a lot to dump on you all at once. And then I went into how I'm a witch. And you were still recovering. So, just forget I said it."

"Said what?" Scott asked, peering around the flaming ball hovering above him to look at Stiles. His face betrayed concern.

"You know," Stiles responded, carefully avoiding Scott's eyes. "...That I love you."

"But I don't wanna forget," Scott responded, sounding almost hurt.

"Er, well, just don't feel like you have to-"

"I love you, too," Scott said, interrupting the boy. Stiles paused for a moment before meeting Scott's eyes.

"Don't say it unless-"

"I do," Scott said assuredly, his stare sobering and intense. "I do mean it. I love you."

A quiet moment followed this, neither boy sure how to continue. They could both feel each other's elation, however, and it made them both smile in spite of themselves. Stiles set to work taking off Scott's torn jeans, again moving slowly and deliberately to minimize the boy's pain. "So, ah," Stiles started, unsure of how to pose the question that had popped into his mind. "When you say love..."

"Romantic love," Scott clarified. "I'm in love with you."

Stiles nodded, a satisfied grin on his face. His fireball suddenly took on a pink hue, and the flame started curling back toward the epicenter. Scott smiled at the burning heart staring back at him, keeping him warm. "So when did you-" Stiles stopped short as he looked up, noticing the unintentional portrayal of his emotions through his fire. With a shake of his head, the flames disappeared entirely. "So. When did you first realize... that...uh, you, were... with me..."

"When did I first realize that I was in love with you?" Scott asked, forming the words that were still too new for Stiles to work his mouth around.

"Er, I was just wondering if it's some kind of wolfy thing or... what..." Stiles said, concentrating again on taking of Scott's pants.

Scott smiled, and a crack of lightening lit up the room so that Stiles could see his face. "No, it was long before that. I've known for... some time," Scott said, pausing to decide how much he wanted to reveal. "Since about eighth grade."

"Wait," Stiles said plaintively, leaving Scott's pants at his knees so he could look the boy in the face. "Three years?"

Scott looked sheepish. "Well, yeah. I mean, just about," he responded, now avoiding Stiles' eyes. "I didn't figure you'd ever... you know, go for me. So I just kept it to myself. It was tough. Especially when I was first turning, and hardly in control of my emotions. But... yeah. Three years."

"Wow, that's... a long time," Stiles said, still thoughtful.

"Why, how long has it been for you?" Scott asked.

Stiles stopped, his face frozen like a deer in headlights. He moved back to the slow work of stripping Scott. "Oh, you know, a while," Stiles said dismissively.

"C'mon, tell me," Scott chided, smiling crookedly. "Was it longer than me?"

"No, not... exactly," Stiles said, keeping his eyes on the pants.

"A year?" Scott asked. "Six months? Less than that?"

Stiles looked as if he were about to be hit, cringing away from Scott. "Like.. a week?"

Scott was quiet for a moment. "What?"

"A... week?" Stiles said. "Or so, something like that, somewhere around then is when I realized..."

"You mean that night? When I slept over here? After your mom's anniversary?" Scott asked, as if he were connecting dots in his head.

"Er-yeah, why?" Stiles asked, now interested.

"It's... probably nothing, just this weird dream that I had," Scott said, his eyes far off as he remembered the strange, vivid night.

"Dreams can be very important," Stiles said, remembering his own life-altering dream of his mother that night.

"Well, it was weird," Scott said, looking as if he was trying to remember the course of events in his dream. "I was being chased by a wolf through the woods, which is a pretty normal dream for me. But then it caught me. And it, I dunno, talked to me. I kinda felt like it was my wolf, y'know? Like, the one inside of me. Anyway, it told me that I would find my mate when I smelled Annie's. Weird prophecy stuff, right? I don't usually dream like that. I wonder if it means something. Do you know anyone named Annie?"

"What? Annie?" Stiles asked, confused and a little irritated that Scott couldn't see the unbelievable circumstances unfolding before them, like fate's threads unspooling to guide their way.

"Yeah, when I smell Annie's what? Clothes? Food?" Scott said, adopting the dense look that Stiles had come to love over the years. "I don't even know someone named Annie."

"Anise, genius. A-N-I-S-E. It's a spice. It's used in pfeffernusse, which your mom bakes every Christmas," Stiles said, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs for Scott to follow.

"Oh," Scott said, his thick brows furrowing as he thought. "_Oh."_

"Yeah, there you go, buddy," Stiles said, giving his knee a gentle pat as he started working the pants off once again.

"Cuz your magic smelled... like Christmas cookies... so then you... are my mate," Scott said, working slowly through the logic.

"Did Derek hit you too hard on the head?" Stiles asked, knocking on his own skull. "Yes. You love me, I love you, we've established this."

"No, Stiles, love is one thing, but mates... that's for life," Scott said, a sobering air of seriousness in his voice. "It's like a destined thing. Wolves rarely find their perfect mate, the person whose genetic code complements theirs perfectly. This is serious."

"Yeah, Scott, I know," Stiles said, falling backwards as he finally tugged the torn jeans over Scott's ankles. The boy moaned slightly at the upset. Stiles walked back over to the head of his bed so the two were face-to-face. "Listen, I was already totally prepared to die for you once, running head first into a den of wolves with no plan."

"You didn't have a plan?!" Scott interjected. Stiles ignored his comment.

"Clearly, I'm totally, utterly, completely yours. For life," Stiles' face took on the somber, earnest quality that Scott had found the boy saved for very few occasions.

"But... I hate that you did risk your life," Scott said, casting his eyes back at the spot where the burning heart had been. It was strange to think that both of them could have died that night, and never shared this moment of tenderness.

"I'd die a thousand times for you," Stiles said, bringing his hand to Scott's face and gently pulling his attention back onto his face. Scott leaned in, his face serious. Stiles thought he was about to respond, but instead, he lifted his lips to meet Stiles' drawing him in to their first kiss. Scott was satisfied to find out that Stiles tasted just as delicious as he smelled. Stiles could feel the magic in Scott's kiss, and knew that the would never be able to love another person in this way. When they parted, a ray of moonlight shone in the space between them. Both cast their eyes to the clouds, which were thick and bloated, save one tiny pinprick, piercing through the thick condensation to allow a beam of moonlight into the room and onto the pair. After a moment, the cloud continued moving, and the hole drifted past the moon, casting the room into darkness once more.

Stiles laughed giddily, unable to contain his joy. Scott looked at him, amused. "So a thousand deaths, huh?" he said. "We're gonna have one hell of a time with hospital bills."

"We'll just start a traveling show," Stiles quipped back. "The Wolfman and The Amazing Dying Boy."

Scott sat up, and happily found that his body was quickly healing, so that he could move a bit more freely now. Stiles smiled as he finally kicked off his own shoes and muddy socks, realizing how cold he'd gotten. The carpet felt soft and comfortable under his bare feet after the soggy clothes had caused his toes to wrinkle. His fingers, too, were pruned, and he noticed a slight blue tinge to them as they shook. Scott, too, started to notice the signs of Stiles' chill. He felt bad for making the boy run out in the rain and for making him stay in his wet clothes until he was done playing nurse.

"I... could warm you up," Scott said tentatively, now feeling like their physical closeness had more significance to it. He didn't want to push Stiles to move any faster than he was comfortable with. "I've got wolfy body heat."

Stiles smirked, taking his shirt off and tossing it with the muddy shoes and socks. "Just to... warm up?" Stiles asked suggestively.

Scott nodded with all of the enthusiasm of a puppy. "I'm like a furnace, dude," he said, opening his arms invitingly. Stiles flopped down on the bed next to him, happily burrowing his face into the boy's broad chest. He noticed a small grimace on his face and made an effort to be gentle as he wrapped his arms around the healing boy's torso. They lay still for a moment, Stiles gratefully absorbing the heat from Scott's warm, tan skin, and Scott happily embracing the boy he'd been chasing for years. Burying his nose in Stiles' hair, he deeply inhaled his scent: the usual mix of vanilla and the scent of old book pages, now with a hint of what he knew to be anise. He broke the silence, his stomach knotted and his face blushing as he made a request. "Uh, Stiles? Your pants are really wet and scratchy. Could you..."

Stiles didn't respond, but simply slipped the wet denim from his legs and dropped them on the floor with a plop, being careful not to disturb his sore boyfriend. He could feel the heady kind of happiness rising in Scott's chest at his compliance. Their hairy legs intertwined in each other, both wanting to let go of the other. Scott's growing stubble scratched the top of Stiles' head as he rested his chin in the boy's hair. Stiles' arm draped over Scott's side, feeling his warmth. His other arm, pinned beneath him, fiddled teasingly with a bit of the boy's torn underwear, his fingers occasionally brushed against Scott's skin and made his pulse jump momentarily. Scott's arms were both wrapped around Stiles' shoulders, drawing him into his chest.

"Oh, and just for the record," Scott said, voicing the concern that popped into his head, "the sheets are wet from my clothes. Not...er, yeah, it's just from the rain."

"No problem," Stiles said, lifting his arm. With a gesture of his hand, he sucked the water out of the sheets, as well as both of their underwear, drawing it into a ball in his hand. He chucked the enchanted water through the window.

The pair once again let comfortable silence take over as they both started to drift into sleep. The darkness of the room hung heavily, adding to the silence. The storm had passed overhead for the moment, leaving the only the hum of crickets, frogs, and distant rain as a backdrop to Scott's breathing. As the darkness started to close around Stiles, he was awoken by a rumbling in Scott's chest. "Stiles?" the tanned boy asked.

"Mmm?" Stiles replied without opening his eyes.

"So, if you can draw water out of materials, like my underwear and the sheets, then... couldn't you have just taken the water out of my clothes?" Scott asked. Stiles could tell without any supernatural senses that his boyfriend had the cute, dense look that he so often adopted. "Instead of taking them off?"

Stiles rubbed Scott's back with his free hand, feeling his skin. He smiled against his chest. "Go to sleep," he responded dismissively, pressing their bodies closer together as they both started to relax and slip into sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Sorry it's been so long, don't ask... Anyway, here's the smut. This chapter is pretty much why it's rated M. So if you don't like it, don't read it. Really, the fic could be considered complete without it, if you aren't into the smut. Otherwise, enjoy the consummation of their matehood ;)**

Stiles woke up suddenly, his body covered in sweat. His heart was racing, and his skin was slick. Tossing the light covers off of himself, he noticed that they were drenched in sweat as well. Scott was still lying on the other side of the bed, the graceful curves of his lean body rising and falling as he breathed. He was emanating heat like a furnace in his sleep, his tanned skin radiating supernatural werewolf warmth as his body worked overtime to finish healing itself. Stiles' hand unconsciously reached out, tracing the sweaty curves of Scott's ribcage with his finger. It was an act of possessiveness, like shining an expensive piece of silver; Stiles was hardly able to believe that Scott actually loved him. His third eye sleepily squinted open, surveying the wolf in front of him. He could see the wounds healing deep inside his body. He was nearly finished. Contented that Scott was safe, Stiles' third eye went back to sleep.

The pale boy stood, wrenching his sights away from the man in his bed. He padded across the floor, the carpet soft beneath his bare feet. As he threw open the window, cool air rushed past his body and into the hot room. The fresh, earthy smell called to Stiles, beckoning him. Summer rain was falling outside, making background noise for Stiles' labored breathing. He shivered, but told himself that it was just the sweat cooling off in the air. He'd been dreaming of wolves.

Sighing, he turned around and headed back toward his bed. Their ordeal was over. For now, anyway. Stiles reminded himself that they could relax. Looking up, he noticed that Scott was sitting up, his dark eyes intent on Stiles. For a moment, the intensity of his stare made Stiles pause, looking at the tanned boy with trepidation. But in the darkness, he saw an amused smile playing on the boy's lips, their crooked angle matching his jaw. He reached out and drew Stiles into his arms, bringing him onto the bed so their skin pressed together. Their lips met, passion exciting their movements as they kissed fervently. Stiles shivered again. This time, however, Scott's skin burning against his own took away any excuse he had of the cold.

The two boys pulled apart, each smiling in the dark. Stiles traced a finger along his mate's broad, tanned chest, following the paths of his energy. Scott grinned again, laying his head down on his mate's shoulder and listening to his heart beating within him. "Stiles?" he whispered, trying not to break the perfect chemistry flowing between them. He heard the boy's heart skip a beat at hearing Scott say his name.

"Yes?" Stiles said, continuing to trace the flow of energy down his side, making the boy twitch beneath his touch.

"So you're my mate now, right?" he asked, having already supplied the answer earlier that day.

"Of course," Stiles replied, bringing his eyes up to Scott's.

"And mates usually..." Scott started, realizing he didn't know how to finish eloquently. He raised his eyebrows, a bemused expression on his face as he waited to see Stiles' response.

"Mate?" Stiles filled in, eliciting a laugh from Scott.

"Yes, mates usually mate," he said, resting a broad hand on the small of the pale boy's back.

"So you want to... mate?" Stiles asked, following Scott's train of logic.

Scott smiled sheepishly. "I mean..." he stammered, not wanting to pressure Stiles. "I haven't technically claimed you as my mate until... I mean, my scent isn't really-" Scott stopped short, feeling awkward describing the bestial nature of werewolf relations.

His mate calmed the tanned boy by responding to him with a kiss on his lips. Stiles could feel the hot rushes of energy pulsating through his boyfriend's body. His soft lips followed the heat coming through his skin, finding the sensitive spots on the boy's body. He tasted Scott's sweet skin, hearing the low moans rumbling inside his chest as his lips paused where the energy pooled at his sensitive brown nipples, hairy, sweaty armpits, and taut navel. Scott settled backwards, resting his head against the wall behind him as Stiles' tongue followed the hairy little path down from his bellybutton. Stiles adjusted himself so that he was on all fours, his head bent down over Scott's pelvis. Scott was laying down on the bed, his torso supported by the wall behind him.

From his vantage point, Stiles could smell the sweaty, musky scent of Scott's torn black briefs, the claw marks giving him ample skin to inhale. His body recognized his mate's pheromones, causing a visceral reaction within him. His every nerve ending screamed for the boy. His skin suddenly became sensitive to even the tiniest brushes of Scott's dark leg hair on his arm. His tongue started salivating at the scent of Scott's manhood. His eyes could see the boy clearly, even in the dark. His body _knew _Scott, and after all these years, it was starving for him.

Scott could sense the change in Stiles. He heard the prickling goosebumps rising on his skin, saw the slight changes in his posture as he went from want to need, and, above all, he could smell Stiles' body screaming for Scott's attention. Scott's wolf took over, his feral senses urging him to fulfill his mate's needs. His fingers reached almost unconsciously for the greatest source of the smell, sliding past the waistband of his red boxer-briefs and grabbing one of his cheeks. He extended his claws, quickly ripping through the material so that it fell off of his mate's body, removing the obstacle between him and that which he needed. Carefully retracting his claws, his blunt fingers searched hungrily over the boy's skin. Finally, one digit plunged into the boy. Instead of feeling relief, Scott felt urged on ever more.

Meanwhile, Stiles had burned off Scott's underwear, using some of the heat of the moment to reduce them to ashes. His fingers grasped at Scott's thigh and pelvis, needing to feel him. His mouth wrapped around the wet, uncut head, tasting the already hard member. The exposed skin tasted like Scott's pheromones as he buried the six inches deep in his throat. Scott's dark pubic hair scratched up and down Stiles' cheek as he pumped up and down on the meat, Scott's hips lifting to welcome the warm, inviting lips.

Stiles' moans reverberated against Scott's cock head as the boy's tanned fingers found his prostate. The pale boy arched his back, digging the fingers deeper inside of him. Scott smiled, knitting one hand through Stiles' hair. In response, Stiles groped his pec with one hand, tweaking his dark nipple with a magical touch of his palm. He could feel Scott's moaning breaths beneath his hand as he felt the tanned flesh of his hard pec. Stiles' lips tightened in response, heightening the sensations.

The pale boy practically whimpered when Scott removed his fingers from his hole, feeling the hand also release from his head. All at once, he felt strong hands on his sides, lifting him up and pulling the dick from his mouth, only to flip him right side up and lower him slowly onto the wet cock. Stiles' naked toes curled as lightning flashed outside, and felt the warm, spit covered member enter him. Scott held his breath as he slowly set the boy down on his cock, feeling his mate from the inside. Once Scott was fully inside of Stiles, the boy took over. Putting his feet on either side of Scott's knees, he used the strength of his leg muscles and a little levitation magic to start lifting himself up and down, impaling himself on Scott's member. He felt Scott's soft lips on his neck as he rose and fell, feeling his boyfriend deep inside of himself. Tan, loving hands grasped at his body, one on his chest and the other on his hip, radiating warmth.

Stiles' erection bounced and bobbed, hitting him occasionally on the stomach as he worked Scott's dick. His mate's hand slid from his hip, across his pelvis, and caught the nodding member, holding his fist still so that Stiles' cock would slide in and out of it as he worked Scott's shaft. As he rose in the air, Scott's hand jerked his cock, squeezing around the sensitive head. As he lowered down, Scott's thick cock rammed his prostate, making him see stars. His body alternated between pleasurable sensations, Stiles' magical abilities naturally pulling him and pushing him as it sought out Scott's skin.

Suddenly, Stiles felt a deep rumble starting in Scott's abdomen. He could feel energy spreading out from this location, squarely in the center of his mate. Explosive rivers of energy flowed through the boy's body in every direction, making his arms and legs tingle, his nipples tighten, his throat release a long, virile howl, and his cock erupted inside of Stiles. The pale boy could feel the electric energy flowing within the boy, pulsating beneath the surface of his skin. It flowed outward through the two available outlets: his erection and his mouth. In a moment of pure togetherness, Stiles felt some of the energy flow into his body, entwining the two through their point of contact on the deepest level. This energy found its way into his system, flowing through his body as well and making him cum at the same time as his boyfriend. Their two bodies were in perfect sync. Scott had officially claimed Stiles as his mate, and the howl had been an unconscious declaration to the rest of the world, though only understood by any wolves within earshot. In return Stiles' third eye lit up on his forehead in the form of a blue crescent moon.

Outside, a massive bolt of lightening cracked through the night, lighting up the world and making a sound that rivaled Scott's deafening roar. They could both feel the displacement of air from the powerful strike. Stiles twisted his body to the side and turned his head to face his mate. As the sound poured from Scott's fanged mouth, Stiles could see the flow of energy leaving his lips. His third eye could see bright spots on everything in sight that Scott had ever touched, the air he had breathed, the thoughts floating through the air that he had created in his liftetime. Stiles' body recognized the call of his mate, and responded. Stiles' entire body appeared glowing to his third eye, as did Scott's. Their skin glowed the same indefinable color, something out of the ordinary spectrum; they officially belonged to one another.

After a few more moments, the color faded from the world. Stiles' eye ceased to glow, and it closed his preternatural view of the world. Scott's howl faded and his face's lines softened back to the gentle, human visage that Stiles had come to know and love. Their heartbeats returned to normal paces, as did their breathing. Both boys collapsed, their bodies intertwining with one another to fit naturally together. Laying on the bed, their eyes held each other, having lost of sense of intensity and now simply sharing the pleasant moment. Silence filled the room, leaving only the sound of chirping frogs and rain coming from the window to act as a soundtrack to their shared amorous thoughts.

A gust of wind pushed wet, chilled night air through the window, bringing the smell of wet earth into the room. Stiles' skin rose in little bumps and he wrapped his limbs more tightly around the supernaturally warm wolf. Closing his eyes and curling his head under Scott's chin, Stiles started to drift into sleep.

"Are you cold?" Scott asked, and he could feel the boy's warm arm leave his side to search for a blanket.

"No," he replied quickly, causing Scott to return his arm to Stiles' side. "You're warm enough. You're all that I need."

**So I could wrap it up with an epilogue after this, or I could keep going. If I keep going, I'm worried the story might stretch too far and stop being good. Updates may also be... unpredictable. This could be a good point to end it. Anyway, comment with your opinion, after a few days I'll decide how to proceed!**


	8. Chapter 8

Following his nose, Sheriff Stilinski walked down the hallway. A smell that he could only describe as a combination of anise and wet dog grew stronger with every step he took toward Stiles' room. His first thought was that the boy hadn't cleaned in a while, and something was getting moldy in his room. Irritated, he shuffled down the hallway, his bare feet made quiet on the hardwood floors by the cuffs of his pajama bottoms. _It's too early for this shit_, he thought as the smell got more and more potent.

With a frustrated sigh, he put his hand on the doorknob. A thought stopped him momentarily from opening the door. What if the scent wasn't just something rotting? It smelled spicier than that, less like decay. What else would it be? Could Stiles be trying to mask the scent of drugs? The Sheriff's stomach dropped as he considered the possibility. Surely Stiles would have enough sense not to do drugs. Especially in the house of the Sheriff of Beacon Hills. He would know how much that could put his job in jeopardy. Then again, assuming anything about Stiles' actions seemed like a long shot.

Tensing his shoulders, he opened the door. "Stiles-" he said, starting to chide his son. He was surprised to see that the room was actually fairly clean, with only a few items of clothes on the floor. There were no visible signs that Stiles had been doing any sort of drugs, except maybe the open window. What made the Sheriff stop short, however, was the sight of his son, laying in bed with his best friend. Having been close for many years, it wasn't a totally uncommon sight for the Sheriff to find. However, this was the first time that he'd ever found them both naked, clinging to each other. With no covers on, he could unmistakably make out Stiles' lean, pale form pressed tightly against Scott's dark muscles in the morning sun. The room was almost unbearably humid, making their bodies glisten with profuse sweat.

His son's back was to him, and so Scott was the first of the pair to stir at the sound of his voice and see the Sheriff. Stiles was still fumbling to get a view at the door as Scott's face turned red, his hands immediately going to cup his groin. In his attempt to turn over and look at his father, Stiles rolled off of the bed in a flailing heap. Meanwhile, Scott looked around for something to cover himself. His eyes went to the pile of ash that had been his underwear the day before. He looked at Stiles' underwear, but it was now cut to ribbons thanks to his impatient claws. As Scott looked frantically, Stiles managed to figure out which way was up, and rectified himself, his hands also covering his groin.

Before either boy could bother to say anything, the Sheriff turned around and closed the door. He paused for a moment, his face puzzled as he drew in a deep, slow breath. _Yep,_ he thought to himself, _ it is way to friggin early for this shit._

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Scott and Stiles bounded into the kitchen, their wet hair dripping onto the shoulders of their shirts. Scott's blue tank top and red shorts clung to his damp body, while Stiles' white t-shirt and black shorts provided an airy breeze to dry him. The Sheriff was sitting at the table, his hands folded in front of him and his eyes distant. At that moment, he was trying to ignore the fact that both boys had clearly showered, but he had only heard the shower turn on once. The pair poignantly avoided looking at him as they set about making breakfast. As they hurried around the kitchen, Mr. Stilinski sat silently, unmoving.

The pair set their bowls of cereal down on the table and sat, now looking at each other awkwardly, questioning Stiles' father's silence. They ate slowly, neither quite sure how to react as the Sheriff continued to sit in silence, perfectly still. Finally, thankfully, the man broke the silence.

"So... it was hot last night," he said, almost like a declaration.

"Uh... yeah, it was," Stiles answered, thinking of the literal steamy romance the pair had shared. Stiles' powers had unconsciously amplified the humidity coming through the window in response to being so close to his mate, turning the room into a sauna.

"Which is why..." the Sheriff started, unable to finish. Stiles and Scott looked at each other for a moment across the table, sharing a thought.

"Yeah!" Scott piped up, looking like an eager puppy. "It was too hot. So we figured the best way to cool down would be..."

"Right," the Sheriff said, satisfying himself with his delusion. "With the window, and the... yeah, okay."

The three were all quiet and motionless for a moment as they let the situation sink in. Nobody was quite sure how to approach the subject of the new situation. The three of them had eaten breakfast together hundreds of times before. Somehow, that fact made it even stranger, now that things had changed.

"Okay," the Sheriff announced, breaking the silence again, "time to set up some ground rules."

Stiles and Scott both looked at the man hesitantly. "Okay," Stiles said in an unsure, wavering voice.

"First, Scott, if you're still gonna sleep over, you should take the guest room," he said, looking at the tanned boy. "You know, the room right between mine and Stiles'. You know, my room, where I keep all my guns. Yeah, that one will be between you and Stiles."

"Dad," Stiles tried to interject, but the Sheriff summarily ignored him.

"Second, no sleeping over if I'm working overnight. Let's say if I'm working after three in the morning, no sleep overs," the Sheriff said.

Before Stiles could say anything, Scott smiled and responded. "That sounds fair," he said to the Sheriff, looking him confidently in the eye. An almost imperceptible sidelong glance between the two boys confirmed to Stiles that Scott intended to use his wolf powers to curtail these rules, as any self-respecting teenager would.

"And finally," the Sheriff said, gathering the pair's attention once more.

"Dad, really, more?" Stiles whined.

"Finally," the man reiterated, "if anyone gives you any shit, you tell me, and I'll take care of them. You got it?"

Scott and Stiles both beamed happily at the man. A grudging smile creeped across his red face. "Okay," Stiles and Scott both sounded in unison.

"Now," the Sheriff said, rising, "when you boys are done, I need you to help me move some broken limbs. In the storm last night, the tree in the front yard got struck by lightning."

Stiles and Scott looked at each other, and both boys started laughing in hysterics. Sheriff Stilinski looked blankly at the two, confused as they doubled over in laughter, milk pouring out of the sides of Stiles' mouth.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

"Hey, Dad," Stiles called, popping up from the couch as he saw his dad walk toward the front door. He'd been feeling a bit glum after Scott had to leave, so he'd been sitting on the couch most of the afternoon. Somehow, the day just seemed anticlimactic after the beautiful night they'd shared.

Mr. Stilinski turned around to face his son, annoyed at the disturbance as he tried to leave for work. "What?" he asked, already feeling that any conversation with Stiles would make him late.

"I was wondering, do you have any, like, contact information for mom's side of the family?" he asked, his dark eyes hopeful. The Sheriff crossed his arms, his face starting to crease into a concerned and confused scowl.

"Why do you want it?" he asked, his eyes narrowing at his son.

"Oh, you know, just thought it'd be nice to catch up... with my family..." Stiles said, poorly disguising his real, supernatural intentions by acting overly casual.

"After sixteen years?" the Sheriff asked, cocking his head. "You haven't seen them since you were a baby."

"Well... you know, it's never too late with family. And... you know, if I ever need an organ transplant..." Stiles answered in his characteristically avoidant manner, stuttering as he realized how unconvincing he was being. "You know, my kidneys... aren't... doing so well."

"Listen, Stiles, if you're trying to get more money on your birthday-" the Sheriff started. Looking at his son's face, he recognized an old sadness. The pain in his eyes was familiar. Mr. Stilinski let out an exasperated sigh.

"Dad, I just... want a connection," Stiles said. He hated lying to his dad, which he'd done a lot of lately, but this wasn't so much lying as a half truth. Since discovering his powers, he felt a new sort of connection to his mother, one that he hadn't known was hidden deep inside him. Now that he could feel it, he wanted to know this new side of her better. His family could both provide answers about his own powers and tell him about his mother's life as a witch.

A pained expression slowly worked across his dad's face, deepening the folds and creases that had gathered with time and making him look much older than he was. He knew he couldn't always be there for Stiles, and that having some family around could do him some good. He also knew that it was unfair to keep Stiles' family away from him just because they reminded him too much of the boy's mother. With a heart-heavy sigh, the Sheriff ran a hand through his hair. "I guess I could... look through some old records after work and see if I can find some numbers or addresses or something," he said, looking at his son with world-weary eyes.

Stiles' big brown eyes held his father's gaze, earnest and secure. "Thanks, Dad."


	9. Chapter 9

Stiles could see the living, breathing pulse of the forest as he and Scott walked through. He noticed the flowering vines climbing up the trees, racing to get above the canopy before winter struck. He could see the tiny seedlings growing on the forest floor, fertilized by the droppings of the squirrels and birds that ate them. Rabbits enjoyed the vital products of the warm temperatures and rainfall, happily nibbling on the growing plants. Everything seemed to be working in perfect harmony, and the world was vibrant with the energy of summer.

"So have you made any progress with getting to know your mom's side of the family?" Scott asked, breaking their comfortable silence. He and Stiles were taking a shortcut through the woods to get to the movies. Thanks to Scott's wolf powers, they spent most of their time together, even when the Sheriff protested. They knew that it would be more difficult to see each other once school started, so they were making the most of the summer.

"Not really," Stiles said, unable to hide the disappointment in his voice. "I've gotten hold of a few secretaries and coworkers, but most of the numbers are either disconnected or someone else's now. Same with the addresses. It's kinda like... everyone just moved all at once."

Scott thought for a minute. "So do you think there's a reason for it?" he asked, following what he knew would be Stiles' train of logic. He'd learned to think like Stiles in cases such as these, and it had definitely been helping him. Still, he felt he couldn't match the boy's ability to analyze situations.

"Well, most of the numbers are pretty old, my dad said some hadn't been updated since before I was born. I guess my mom didn't keep great records," Stiles reflected for a minute as they walked, trying to find the words to explain. "It's just... feels wrong. I don't think it's exactly a big sale at Witches R' Us that made them all leave, you know?"

"Do you think they were running to something, or... away from something?" Scott asked, silently wondering if there really was a store called Witches R' Us.

"I don't know," Stiles replied, his mouth in a grim line as he found himself fearing the worst. Feeling the suddenly heavy nature of the conversation, he smiled, trying to lighten the mood. "I sense... a disturbance in the force."

Scott was quiet for a long moment. "I... still haven't seen Star Wars," he admitted sheepishly.

"Dude, I lent you all those DVDs like four weeks-" Stiles stopped short and stood still, listening. Scott looked back at the boy, the smile dissolving from his expression as he stopped and paid attention to everything his senses could pick up. He heard a brief crunching sound, like leaves underfoot, followed by a quick whistling. His hand shot up just in time to grab the arrow whizzing toward his chest. Both boys stared at it for a moment before grimly surveying the woods around them. It only just occurred to them that there was an awful lot of cover here for a hunter.

"Looking for me?" a voice called. Allison jumped down from a tree only about a hundred feet away from the pair. Her scent was almost entirely masked.

"Allison," Scott said, his voice betraying his sudden understanding. He hadn't thought of the girl for quite some time, since only a few weeks after they'd broken up at the beginning of the summer. "You've gotten better at this whole hunting business."

"I've been training," she said, taking a few steps closer to the pair. Scott instinctively moved slightly in front of Stiles. "Looks like you've moved on pretty quickly."

Scott's eyes flashed yellow. The truth was, he had loved Stiles long before he even knew Allison. He'd loved her, too, but Stiles had always been his true love, the one that he thought he could never have. "Did you need something?" Stiles asked, getting annoyed at the two trading witticisms. "Other than target practice?"

Allison actually looked at Stiles for the first time. "Yeah, I heard that we have another threat in town to deal with," Allison said, her eyes narrowing.

"You hunt witches, too?" Stiles asked, knowing it would've just been a matter of time before the Argents knew. They had a close eye on everything in Beacon Hills.

"That depends," she said, almost smiling. "If you're a threat to humans, then yeah, we do."

"I haven't hurt anyone, and I didn't exactly plan on it," Stiles said. "Feel free to leave us alone."

"I think Derek would have a different opinion of that," Allison said, "You've proven yourself to be a threat, Stiles. Derek is on the retreat, and the Alpha pack is following him. That leaves us with lots of time to keep a close eye on you."

Scott's muscles tensed and a tendon along his jawline twitched angrily. Stiles hadn't even noticed that the boy's hands had balled into tight fists. He gently slid his own fingers down Scott's wrist, inviting him to open his hand so he could hold it. The loving gesture seemed to calm down the aggressive protector within Scott. Stiles smiled, realizing how important easing the tension of this moment could be. "Well don't worry, I'm not going to hurt anyone anytime soon. I think we can live peacefully alongside the hunters," he said in a calm, even tone, which seemed out of place in the aggravated stand-off.

Regardless, the tension did ease a bit. Allison's bunched up shoulders relaxed slightly and Scott's posture melted back from the ready-to-pounce stance he'd been taking. "There's more going on than you know," Allison said, her tone suggesting that she was letting him in on a bit of information that she hadn't intended on telling him. "You should talk to some other witches."

"What do you mean, is there something going that you... can totally not tell me and just walk away," Stiles started to inquired more, but Allison turned her back on the pair and began walking away. "Thanks, I wasn't in the middle of a sentence or anything."

Allison stopped for a moment and turned around, giving Stiles hope that she would answer his question. "Oh, and one more thing," she said smugly, whipping out an arrow, notching it in her bow, and firing before either had time to react. Both boys noticed as it left her hand, however, that it was easily going to miss them by a mile. Boyd, however, sprang up in time to catch the arrow before it planted itself firmly in his chest.

As the hunter disappeared, Stiles and Scott openly stared at Boyd, mouths agape. He made his way over to the pair, snapping the arrow in half on the way. "Hey guys," he said casually, dropping the pieces of metal and plastic on the forest floor.

"You've been gone for months and nobody has heard a word from you after disappearing mysteriously, and now you show up just as Allison tries to make a pincushion out of you, and all you have to say is 'hey guys'?!" Stiles said loudly, more or less describing his mate's feelings as well.

"Uh... how's it going, guys?" Boyd said with a shrug.

"So where were you?" Scott asked, cutting Stiles off as he started in on another tangent. Boyd's expression darkened.

"A pack of Alphas had us locked up in a bank," he responded, now looking like he didn't want to discuss the subject. "They let us out when they heard about Stiles sending Derek running with his tail between his legs."

"You and Erica? Where did she go?" Scott asked, wondering if the pair had split up to find their pack. However, Boyd's expression darkened even more.

"Me and Cora. Cora Hale. She went to look for Derek. After I heard what happened, I thought finding you would be a safer bet," Boyd responded, avoiding the obvious question.

"So... then Erica..." Scott couldn't think of a good way to ask, but he needed to know her fate. The look of sharp pain and loss in Boyd's face answered his question. He put his hand on the boy's broad shoulder. "I'm sorry."

Boyd stared at Scott's hand for a moment, as if considering it, then seemed to accept his empathy. Scott considered going in for a hug, but figured that it would be a bit too intimate between pack members. Instead, he just gave the boy's shoulder a squeeze and dropped his hand. A heavy silence weighed down the air between the three for a long moment, letting the gravity of the news sink in. It was not lost on Scott that Boyd had come to him instead of his Alpha. He hoped that the boy would stay with him and Stiles instead of going to Derek, since that seemed the safer plan of action.

Boyd's face lightened, and he tried to get everyone's minds off of the sad news. "So has anything new been going on with you two?" he asked earnestly and innocently, not realizing how loaded his question was due to the massive changes that had occurred between the two in the past few weeks.

The pair looked at each other, easily reading the other's expression and finding themselves unable to resist the fit of laughter that bubbled up inside each of them.

**Lol, I wrote this before Boyd died on the show... Not that I'm following the canon timeline here, but it kind of made it that much sadder.**


	10. Chapter 10

Stiles let out a little sigh, relaxing in the sunlight. His shirtless torso gratefully drank up the bright light, absorbing the warmth as peace flowed through him. With his eyes closed, he could still see shadows of clouds as the little wispy dark spots passed over the sun. He realized that this was the first time that he'd actually really relaxed since finding out he was a witch. The tension melted from his shoulders as he let go of all thoughts about the Argents, witches, werewolves, and all of the other little secrets that made his shoulders tighten. He simply listened to the gentle splash of water and the distant shouts and laughter of strangers.

A darker shadow clouded the brightness of the sun against his eyelids suddenly, and he could feel a looming presence above him. His pulse quickened as he attempted to get up from his position on the ground, but the other person was too fast. Before he could react, he was covered in cold, salty ocean water.

"Dammit, Scott," Stiles said, sitting up and spitting out a mouthful of the briny water. Scott laughed as he backed up, fearing retaliation.

"It wasn't me," he said, dropping the bucket onto the sand. He put his hands up in surrender. "It was a sudden and inexplicable storm right above your head."

"Oh?" Stiles asked, standing up and wiping the sand from his dark green swimming trunks without taking his eyes off the tanned boy standing a few feet away.

"Yeah, a freak weather occurrence," Scott responded, slowly backing up further as his mate stood up on the towel.

"Oh yeah?" Stiles said, springing forward to grab the bucket that the boy had just dropped, Scott ran toward the ocean as Stiles scooped up a bucketful of sand. He ran over to Scott in the knee high water, able to catch up with him after the werewolf accidentally almost ran into a pack of kids. Coming up from behind and wrapping one arm around his lean waist, he hugged the boy close as he dumped the bucket of sand into the boy's dark hair. "It looks like a sand storm just picked up!"

Scott held his breath, trying not to inhale any of the hot sand pouring through his hair and down his shoulders. When the bucket emptied and the rain of sand ceased, Scott shook his hair out as best he could, stretching out the legs on his pink speedo to let out the uncomfortable sand that had gotten inside. Then, wriggling around, he came face-to-face with his mate, their flat stomachs pressed against each other. He breathed hotly on the boy's neck. His hands found their way to Stiles' hips. "Stiles," he said, his face buried against his pale shoulder. "I love the new bathing suit you bought me." The pale boy's breath hitched, caught in his throat before it could reach Scott's warm, inviting skin. He hadn't actually thought Scott would wear the gag gift when he bought it. Now he could feel the warmth of his entire exposed body. Suddenly, the sound of the ocean roared beneath him as he found himself flying over it. With a splash, the boy landed a full six feet away from Scott, his hips feeling hot from where his mate's hands were just before the tanned boy threw him into the water.

Scott surveyed the rippling water with a devious grin on his face, hands on his hips as he awaited the angry witch to emerge from the surface and tackle him. His smile slowly faded as more time passed without so much as a bubble in the direction Stiles had flown. Scott's wobbly knees pushed forward uncertainly through the water, his breath coming in short pants as he worked his way through the water to where it was waist deep. He began to chastise himself as his rapidly beating heart pumped blood and adrenaline through his veins. Stiles was still basically a human. Scott knew that he couldn't take as much abuse as a wolf. He pictured the boy's fragile human head making contact with the hard packed sand beneath the water, his neck bending under the pressure and-

Salty water stung Scott's eyes and nose as he found himself underwater. Waves broke over Stiles' head as he splashed through to the surface, his hands still wrapped around Scott's ankles. He waited until the angry, foamy bubbles stopped floating up to greet him before he let the boy go free, allowing him to rectify himself. With a loud gasp, Scott whipped his wet locks from his face so he could look at his attacker. Stiles raised his hands to either side in surrender, a pensive look on his face as he awaited Scott's next attack or acceptance of his surrender. Scott's dark eyes squinted and his plump lips set into a hard line as he considered his options. Finally, he waded over to Stiles, who flinched as the boy slid an arm around his waist. Satisfied that they were even, Stiles allowed himself to be guided to their towel. Scott gave his butt a little pat in a final act of revenge before they both stretched out on the towel to dry out and soak up the sun.

Sand stuck to their backs as they relaxed, letting the warmth of the daylight into their bodies. Distantly, some children were yelling and splashing in the water. Scott listened to Stiles' heartbeat as it seemed almost in sync with the crashing of the waves. As his lungs filled with salty air, Stiles could sense the perfect flow of nature around him. The waves were crashing against rocks, slowly wearing it into sand. Fiddler crabs dug into the wet sand, creating a shelter where they could hide and hunt. Tiny fish darted around the splashing feet of kids and their parents. Seagulls floated on the water, their keen eyes seeking out the little fish to eat. Everything was working in perfect harmony.

Scott enjoyed the liberation of having the vast majority of his skin exposed. The warm breeze felt good on his sweaty skin, and he liked the lusty glint in Stiles' eyes every time his gaze lingered on his mate. Propping his head up on his hands, he took a deep breath and let a gentle, crooked smile creep across his face. The salty air made it difficult to smell anyone else, except him and Stiles, which was a blessing for Scott and his usually oversensitive nose. The roar of the ocean drowned out most sounds other than Stiles' breathing and heartbeat. The universe seemed to wrap around the pair to create a little world of their own. Since he'd first untangled his feelings for Stiles, this moment was the one that he'd been waiting for. A sense of completion, of companionship, and of connection on a fundamental level.

A sudden blot in the light interrupted their moment of unspoken partnership. Stiles was half convinced that he would open his eyes to find that the blot was the moon, marring the flow of light between the sun and his own world with Scott. Instead it was Boyd, dripping wet as he shuffled through the bag sitting next to the pair. As he withdrew two towels, Lydia approached from behind him, equally wet as she gratefully accepted the towel he offered her. As the pair dried themselves off, Stiles propped himself up on his elbows and surveyed the ocean. The sun was closer to the water than he'd remembered. A glance at his phone confirmed to Stiles that he had Scott had been sitting together for much longer than he'd thought.

"Wow, have we really been here that long?" Stiles wondered aloud. Suddenly, a terrible thought ran through his mind. He sprung to his feet. "Oh no, dammit."

Boyd scoffed and Scott giggled as Stiles poked his stomach, watching the skin turn from a light white back into an angry shade of red. Stiles looked at him imperiously. "If you'd brought a stronger sunblock like I suggested, this wouldn't have happened," she said as she folded her towel. "Your pale skin doesn't have enough melanin to defend itself against the UV rays."

Stiles' mouth crumpled in a snarl as she smugly applied another layer of sunblock to her fair skin. Scott sat up and slapped his stomach, leaving a white handprint over his navel as he doubled over in pain. Lydia and Boyd both joined Scott's laughter as Stiles fluently spilled expletives at his mate. Their laughing redoubled when Stiles' sunglasses fell off, revealing the squares of unburned skin around his eyes. From a distance, they looked like a normal group of friends enjoying a day at the beach.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Walking through the front door, Stiles couldn't help but smile as the warm glow of the day still rang through his head. He didn't bother searching for his father, whose irregular schedule Stiles had long since made a habit of memorizing weekly. Instead he began digging through the cabinets in search of the popcorn he'd promised Scott. The two had settled on a movie night after Stiles discovered on the way home that Scott had never tried kettle corn. The package of sweet microwavable popcorn was wedged far in the back of the cabinet, with the rest of the things that Mr. Stilinski had dubbed "Stiles' weird food."

After flipping through his personal collection of DVDs, Stiles decided on a night of movies based off of video games: _Resident Evil, Tomb Raider, _and _Silent Hill_. They had both long since exhausted Stiles' collection of movies, so he'd gotten into the habit of coming up with themes to keep the same tired movies interesting. However, Stiles hoped this weak theme would provide lots of time for the two to talk, and even more time for them to make out.

Passing through the hallway to try and find some other snacks before the boy came over, he doubled back to look at the note taped to the phone. His dad had scrawled a number that he didn't recognize across the back of a Chinese take out menu and taped it to the phone. His own name was written above it, and one he'd only seen once before was written below. His Aunt Ellen was one of the four remaining family members who he hadn't been able to track down in any way. Now, apparently, his father had gotten hold of her phone number. The world seemed to fall out from beneath Stiles. He had gotten so caught up in being a regular teenager that he'd totally forgotten about his recent discoveries.

Suddenly, hope fluttered up through Stiles' stomach, settling in the back of his throat. This could be his connection to his mom's family. He could finally get some answers about his powers; more importantly, he could get answers about his family history. A million questions started buzzing in Stiles' mind like a hive of bees, working busily now with the promise of answers. Taking the menu from the phone, he studied the numbers for a moment before picking up the land line. Somehow, it seemed wrong. After all of the anticipation, he felt like there should be something more ceremonial about the entire thing than picking up a telephone. The dial tone droned impatiently as he hesitated. Finally, he punched in the numbers, each flat note echoing through his skull.

One ring. It suddenly occurred to Stiles that he had no idea where his aunt lived. It could be the middle of the night where she was. Two rings. What if he was calling to another continent? Surely it would cost a lot. The Sheriff wouldn't be happy. Surely there would be more numbers for a phone in another country. Three rings. He couldn't even picture his Aunt Ellen in his head. It seemed weird to be calling a total stranger and expecting a family out of her. Especially since even afterward, he would still probably have no idea what she looked like. Four rings. What if she didn't answer? Leaving a message hadn't even occurred to Stiles. What could he say? 'Hi, this is your nephew, you remember your dead sister right? She had a son, and he's a witch now! So when's the reunion?' Five rings. The world suddenly went silent and still, like the moment a ball reaches its climax and hovers in the air for a moment before falling again.

"Hello?"


	11. Chapter 11

"Hi, my name is Stiles," the pale boy said, apprehension apparent in his voice. "I think, I mean, you might be-"

"I know who you are," a voice on the other end of the telephone said, warm and assuring. "You're my sister's son. Stiles. I can still remember that nickname. Which would make me your Aunt Ellen."

Stiles pulled a chair from the kitchen table, suddenly realizing how tense he'd been. His face felt hot as his blush died away. Though it was difficult to tell over the phone, the voice seemed to belong to someone a bit older than his mom would have been, displaying both strength and gentleness. "I don't mean to bother you, but I was just wondering if you could answer a few questions for me," Stiles said, suddenly realizing that this might be something of an imposition. He made a concerted effort to hide his usual erratic nature, wanting to make a good impression on the first person he'd met on his mom's side of the family.

"Of course," his Aunt Ellen replied, her warm and inviting tone now taking a careful edge. "You wanted to know about our family... history?"

Stiles was fairly certain that the sudden care she took to not reveal too much was due to fear that he still didn't know about his witch genetics. He put her mind at ease. "Yes, I wanted to know more about power that runs in our family," Stiles replied.

He could almost hear her breathe a sigh of relief. "Oh wonderful, you already know. I told your mother that she shouldn't spellbind you. I told her to send you to us so we could teach you to harness your power. But she couldn't leave your father alone, and he couldn't leave Beacon Hills," she rambled, happy to finally be able to tell him this. A touch of grief in her voice hinted at the fact that she'd wanted to do more for him.

"It's okay," Stiles replied, staying strong as he fought off the strong emotions pushing against the backs of his eyes. "I understand. But I'd, uh, really like to know about the family. I've had a tough time getting a hold of anybody."

The line was silent for a moment, and as the seconds passed, Stiles found himself fearing that he'd said something wrong. He could almost feel his hold on the only tenuous connection he had to his mom's family slipping. "Yes," she said finally, a hard edge to her voice. "Yes, I suppose they would be scarce at the moment."

Stiles redirected his questioning at this strange bit of cryptic information. "Why is that? Where are they all going?" Stiles asked. "Are they running to or from something?"

Another long silence pervaded, and Stiles wondered if it would perhaps be a better idea to just talk about easier topics. He was worried about scaring her away. His aunt breathed a deep sigh into the phone. "I suppose they're doing both," she responded. "You see, something big has happened in our world. That is, for witches. The archmage just died, which only happens about every century or so. Many witches' lives have been thrown into chaos."

"Archmage? Why is that a big deal?" Stiles asked, confused as if he were hearing the middle of a story.

"Your mother really didn't teach you anything before she died?" Ellen asked, seeming surprised and a bit irritated. Once again, she breathed a deep sigh. "Witches have something of a hierarchy. The archmage is at the top. He essentially protects all of the witches in the world. He controls a series of witches beneath him who mete out justice and protection where needed. He's incredibly powerful, and therefore feared by hunters and most other supernatural creatures. However, he almost never exerts his considerable power, since he knows that it will cause resentment from other creatures. At least, the last one did. As a result, nobody bothered the witches much, and our numbers grew."

"So what does this have to do with our family?" Stiles asked, the phrase 'our family' feeling a bit strange in his mouth while talking to a complete stranger.

"It doesn't just involve our family, it involves every witch across the globe!" his Aunt Ellen said with an exuberance that hinted at the release of long repressed tension. She took a moment, and her cool tone afterward suggested that she'd been composing herself. "You see, now that the archmage is gone, a new one is going to have to take his place. Until someone proves their powers and is appointed by the Council of Grand Witches, there is no guaranteed protection for witches."

Stiles suddenly felt leery, as if he were no longer safe. Until a short while ago, he didn't even know that he was a witch, much less that being one made him a target. "So... hunters might go after witches?" Stiles asked, incredulous. "I know a few hunters. They don't seem like the type to go and plant a knife in someone's back without a good cause." Regardless of their code of ethics, Stiles couldn't help thinking of recent activities involving Gerard, nor could he suppress images of Kate gleefully burning a family of werewolves to death.

"There are some hunters who... specialize in finding witches and... eliminating them as threats," Ellen said uneasily. "Historically, when this happens, there usually ends up being a witch hunt. Some of them break out while the archmage is still reigning, but he usually deals with them swiftly and mercilessly. You see, hunters usually take advantage of these times of flux to take out as many witches as they can. Our family is one of the oldest on record. Many people change their last names and go into hiding, and entire families are often wiped out."

"Ours was in the Trier witch trials, wasn't it? I remember reading in the book that we were almost wiped out then," Stiles said, connecting what little he'd read in the book about his history to what his aunt was telling him about current events. "So is that what everyone is doing? Going into hiding?"

"Not exactly," his Aunt Ellen said. "You see, beneath the Archmage is the council of Grand Witches. Beneath them are the High Witches. Everyone is seeking refuge under their spheres of influence. Once, witches only lived near their regional superior for protection. In the last century, the Archmage made sure that we were all so well protected that witches started to leave the safety of their covens and live where they pleased. Now, a lot of witches are going back to the old ways and forming covens again for survival. So most of our family dropped everything and moved as soon as they heard about the Archmage."

Stiles' stomach churned and his head swam in a sea of new and terrifying information. Since discovering that there were werewolves in the world, Stiles had made a point of taking extra precautions. Now, he felt as if the only safe thing to do was hole up in a bunker and assume the fetal position. "How long does it usually take to appoint a new Archmage?" Stiles asked, feeling sick.

"It can take up to a decade," his aunt responded, confirming his worst fears. "It depends on how long it takes for someone to prove their abilities as being exceptional. Being an Archmage is something that you're more or less born with, though the power won't manifest while there is another still alive."

"So what? We're just supposed to sit around and wait to die until someone happens to try to light a candle and burns down a village?" Stiles asked, his first glimpse into the world of witches making him wish that he were still spellbound.

"Oh honey," Ellen said, her voice softening and taking a sympathetic edge. "I promise that being a witch is a beautiful, wonderful thing. You just happen to have come in at a bad moment. It won't always be a fight for survival. There are many incomparably marvelous parts of our world that you'll see. Right now, though, you should probably ind the nearest High Witch and try to find a living situation there. There should be a map of them in the grimoire. Everything will go back to how it was soon, I promise."

A million questions made Stiles' head foggy. "So when can I see the family?" he asked, suddenly having a vivid childhood memory of being lost inn the supermarket after getting separated from his mom.

"Soon, I promise," she said, her feathery soft voice making him want to believe her. "We're all a bit scattered now, but soon enough we'll all be back in contact. Then maybe we can find a safe place to convene. But I have to go now. I have to pack and leave as quickly as possible."

Stiles had a feeling like sand falling through his fingers as he heard his only family member saying her goodbyes. "I love you, Aunt Ellen," he said, honestly feeling it despite having been distant from her for the majority of his life.

She hesitated a moment. "I love you, too," she said in a strangled voice. "Stay safe."

Stiles waited for a long moment, listening to the dialtone. It yawned at him, confirming his loneliness as it echoed the myriad of questions that plagued his mind now. Hanging up the land line, he allowed his recent revelations to sink in. The chirping of crickets, buzzing of cicadas, and distant croaking of toads seemed like mourning calls now for the exciting life that he'd mistakenly believed his was starting. The danger of the world took away some of its wonder, now making it seem savage and competitive. He doubted very much that he could use his powers to take on a seasoned witch hunter. Or a relative novice, for that matter.

Gathering his wits, he shut all of the curtains and windows, locking them into place for a vague sense of security. Walking up the stairs to the attic, Stiles couldn't help feeling as if the mortal locks were almost laughably pitiful; a step above tying a piece of string with a tin can at the end to the window. Somehow, his mother's little room seemed like less of a private chamber for witchcraft and more of a hastily composed bomb shelter. It was the equivalent of a rodent's nest in a person's house, constantly fearing being seen by the larger beings of the outside world.

_ No._

Stiles bristled as he dug his heels into the dirt. He would not allow these witch hunters to sully the memory of his mother. She was proud and strong, and surely could have contended with any sort of hunter or other supernatural creature looking to do her family harm. With a deep breath, Stiles opened the cabinets. Before moving the jar of rosemary to get at the grimoire, Stiles made a point of taking out a handful of stems from the jar marked "purslane", counting out enough for each door and window to the outside of his house.

Flipping through the book, Stiles idly wondered when the index was made, since apparently it was after the creation of this book. After a few minutes of flipping, Stiles finally found a page that was folded over. Unfolding it, he found that it got several times larger, revealing a map of Earth. A small legend in the corner informed him that a blue dot indicated the Archmage, a purple dot represented a Grand Witch, with purple borders indicating his or her purview, a green dot showed a High Witch, and a circle around the high witch signified his or her area of control. His eyes swept over the continents, now understanding the divisions of Earth much differently. There were very few Grand Witches, and their green lines divided up the world into large chunks for each to watch over. Inside these divisions were green circles indicating where High Witches reigned. Stiles' eyes searched over the map, trying to make sense of the spacing of the circles. There were large areas of the world that were completely without the protection of a High Witch.

Stiles narrowed his eyes, looking for the closes green circle to Beacon Hills. There was a tiny one around San Francisco, which seemed to just barely cover the city. Stiles' eyes widened as he saw the tiny circle move. Taking a step back, he noticed that most of the little dots were moving. Some only made tiny little vibrations, while others seemed to move at steady paces, fast enough to be noticed. Stiles smiled to himself as he found the answer to his questions of accuracy. The map needed no updating, since it seemed to magically track the movements of each witch in the hierarchy.

Notes scrawled on the sides of the map filled Stiles in on many of the nuances of the population distribution. First, he learned that many of the large expanses without a High Witch were widely populated with other supernatural beings or were popular places for hunters. Stiles figured that the reason most of his area was without a High Witch was because there seemed to be an inordinately high number of werewolves. Second, he learned that a High Witch's circle of protection moved with him or her, whereas a Grand Witch can cross his or her own borders while still maintaining their influence over the area. Third, he learned that a High Witch's circle was directly proportionate to his or her power and therefore his or her ability to protect those inside of the circle. Thus, a smaller circle meant a less powerful High Witch, and a larger one meant a more powerful one.

Stiles assumed that most of his family decided to relocate closer to a large circle of protection. The circle over San Francisco was one of the smallest on the map, meaning that the High Witch living there probably wouldn't be much help to him. However, the closest sizable High Witch was in Arizona. A fairly large circle was located right near the western border. Drawing a line between Beacon Hills and the edge of the circle, Stiles figured that he would be several hours, almost a day, away from everyone he knew and loved. His stomach tightened and his breathing grew shallow. He thought of his dad, alone in Beacon Hills. Stiles searched for a plausible reason to get his father to come with them to another state, but he drew a blank. Short of informing him of the entire magical world beyond his realm of knowledge, Stiles couldn't think of a dire enough situation to uproot the man's entire life. Besides, he knew that his dad would be safer if he stayed away from this entire business and wasn't associated with a witch.

Numb fingers dug through Stiles' pockets, shaking as they scrolled through his contacts. The time restraint weighed heavily on Stiles' mind as he tried to sort out the different sides of the equation. There seemed no clear answer as to what he should do next. Too many thoughts started crowding his mind, each vying for his attention as it arrived. Clicking on the picture of a smiling boy with a crooked jaw, Stiles looked to the one person who could clear out the clutter of his mind and help him see clearly.

"Hey, Scott," Stiles started when the ringing stopped and a voice like honey sounded through the phone. "Do you have some time? I have about a week's worth of crap to dump on you."


	12. Chapter 12

"Are you sure we shouldn't wait for Boyd?" Stiles asked, putting his Jeep into park.

"No, it's better if there are fewer of us," Scott responded, looking determined as if he were preparing for battle. "Too many people would just weigh us down."  
Stiles gripped the steering wheel tightly as Scott got out of the car and into the damp dusk. A chorus of early crickets and late cicadas seemed to be working in the pair's favor, providing a little coverage for the noise they were sure to make. After an entire day of indecision, Stiles and Scott had agreed to find out exactly how much of a risk they were running. However, they disagreed about how to go about it. Stiles simply wanted a logical and civil conversation with the Argents about their safety since finding out about the death of the Archmage, especially if they were in any danger of witch hunters. Scott agreed on using the Argents to find out the hunters' activity, but was far less confident that they would be willing to help. Instead, he proposed that they do some reconnaissance on the Argents' new place.

Somewhere between his arguments about their new apartment having less security and the Argents being untrustworthy, Scott had managed to convince his mate. His earnest, doughy eyes and puppy-like demeanor probably didn't help Stiles' judgment either. Stiles had serious doubts about the allegedly retired Argents and the likelihood that they would be able to glean any information from them, but Scott once again convinced him that he knew them well enough to guarantee that they would be talking about the recent turn of events, and that they were probably less than entirely inactive in the world of hunting.

Scott maneuvered the intricate metalwork surrounding the industrial building, almost silent as he leaped from bar to bar and climbed the brick walls. Stiles watched in awe as the boy finally reached the window to the living room. With a shake of his head, Stiles simply found a channel of air to lift him up to the window leading to Chris' study, leaving behind the faint scent of saffron in his wake. As he rose in the air, a flow of energy within him caught the property of the wind and made his body as transparent as the air surrounding him. The pair hesitated in front of the windows for a moment, waiting for the trap to spring.

Suddenly, a fire alarm went off within the house. Its loud beeping drew both Allison and her father into the kitchen to inspect it, and masked the noise of the windows opening as the two boys slipped silently into the apartment. Scott found a hiding place behind the sofa while Stiles found a position near the open door which was sure to be out of the Argents' way. The beeping from the other room stopped as Allison and Chris pulled the battery out of the alarm, unable to find a reason for its wailing. Stiles ceased the spell on the electrical currents inside the tiny machine, returning it to its normal state.

The Argents reentered the living room, Allison sitting down on the couch behind which Scott was hiding as her father stood near the door of his study, looking through his phone. His face creased with concern as he flipped the little bright screen. He finally looked up at his daughter. "Sweetie?" he called, looking somewhat forlorn.

"Yes?" Allison replied, her eyes searching his, her tone reflecting the concern she had for his apparent stress.

"Promise me that you'll stay retired," he said, his eyes dark and intense. "Promise me you won't do anything... risky."

"Why?" she asked, sitting up. "Is something happening?"

Chris Argent released a deep sigh. He almost seemed as if he were half hoping she wouldn't ask. "Well, you know about the death of the Archmage, right?"

"Yeah," she responded, trying to follow his train of logic. "You told me yesterday."

"And you know that the witch hunters are on the prowl for any stray magic users who aren't under the protection of a superior, right?" he asked again, attempting to help her keep up with him.

"Yeah," she said again, then added in a rehearsed tone, "you said they're going after all of the druids without a pack and the witches without a High Witch."

Her father nodded. "Well, apparently they've organized themselves," he said, pursing his lips tightly.

"How do you mean?" Allison asked, her brow furrowing.

"The witch hunters have gathered together in several places. One wave is sweeping down the West coast, headed our way," Chris said, his eyes trained on his daughter's as he tried to gauge her reaction. "They're mostly trying to root out the smaller covens and any stray witches or druids they find. They'll probably pass through here, I've offered a few to stay the night here, as an act of good faith. But I don't want you stirring them up. I know that you aren't a huge fan of Stiles right now, but there's no reason to get an innocent boy killed."

Stiles swallowed hard as he heard the last word. Tears involuntarily welled in his eyes. The possibility was getting more and more real as he learned more about his world. He could die for something over which he had no real control. He hadn't even done anything wrong, and he was facing a mob of organized murderers. Somehow, Chris' diplomatic words didn't comfort him much, as they seemed to imply that he wouldn't hand him over to the hunters, nor would he stand in their way.

"Why shouldn't I?" Allison asked, shattering any positive feeling Stiles had ever had toward her. "I mean, are they wrong? Isn't he dangerous? Maybe he should be taken out while there's still a good chance."

"Allison," Chris said sternly, looking her defiantly in the eye. "You know that there are some magic users who are helpful to us. We benefit from their presence, and we turn a blind eye to the threat that they pose. Deaton has helped you more than once. If you give the hunters an idea that there might be magic in Beacon Hills..."

Allison watched as her father got lost in thought. "Well can they at least help us find the Hale pack?" she asked, snapping Chris back to the present. "They're still a threat."

"Of course, they can help us find the Hales. They're out in the woods by now anyway. But dealing with these kind of organized, opportunistic, bloodthirsty hunters is like playing with fire, Allison," Mr. Argent replied.

"But if they do find Stiles, on their own, of course," Allison started, waiting for her father to finish her thought.

"We won't stand in their way," he confirmed. "Nor will we help them."

Allison's demeanor changed. She seemed more devious, suddenly. "Then I hope they do find him," she said. Her father's face registered a strange mixture of shock and disappointment. "I hope they tear him limb from limb, quarter and draw him, drive an arrow through his heart, smash his brains on Scott's front door, and then-"

Allison stopped short as a sudden burst of action took place behind her. In one fluid motion, Scott toppled over the couch and managed to pin Allison on the ground, his hand around her throat. He was surprised, once they were face-to-face, to find a smug grin on her face. It only took Scott a moment to realize that, in truth, he had been caught in a trap. Allison had merely been describing a violent death for Stiles in order to rile Scott up and make him spring out of hiding. She somehow knew that he had come in, and intentionally led the conversation to Stiles' death. Before he could react to this realization, a sharp pain between his shoulder blades made him wince before passing out.

Chris Argent dropped the cattle prod he used to incapacitate wolves, shoving the unconscious teen off of his daughter. He gave her a disapproving look as he realized that she had knowingly goaded the boy into attacking her. "You know, werewolves are always quite dangerous, no matter how good of friends you are. You should've told me in the first place, instead of risking your life," Chris chided his daughter.

"I wasn't sure," Allison said contemplatively.

"Alright, help me load him into the car," Mr. Argent said, lifting the boy's legs.

"But dad, couldn't he help us find the Hale pack?" Allison asked.

Chris hesitated. "Allison," he said sternly, a command.

"Couldn't he tell us where they are, and help us hunt them down?" Allison persisted.

"Yes, but-"

"But nothing, Dad," Allison responded. "The women in this family make the decisions. We are the leaders. As such, we do what I say. And I say we keep him until he shows us where the Hales are. Besides, maybe if we find them before the hunters come, we won't need to let them stay with us after all."

Chris considered for a moment. He knew that he could veto her decision, but he couldn't deny her logic. If they did use Scott to find the Hale pack, then they could tell the witch hunters to go on to the next town, and keep the peace in Beacon Hills. Reluctantly, he dropped the boy's legs. In the next room over, a window crashed. The pair ran to look at the source of the noise, and were surprised to find that the glass had flown out of the window, as if something had gone out instead of forcing its way in.

Stiles watched the glow of the window get smaller and smaller as his body was carried against his will over the city of Beacon Hills. He hadn't been able to help Scott, in fact, he hadn't even been able to move since Scott sprang out from behind the couch. Now he felt as if his body were being dragged through the air by some giant string. It tugged on him until he passed through the open circular window of the attic, landing him gently on the floor of the old, dusty room. Standing, he immediately ran to the door. He found it locked, and the old metal knob refused any attempt of his to magically open the door. The entire room felt as if it were magically sealed.

Frustrated, Stiles slumped against the doorframe. Tears slid down his face. He didn't care much about having to face the witch hunters, much less having to face them alone. At the moment, his only concern was Scott's safety. He imagined the boy waking up alone, searching for the boy who he'd stupidly risked himself to try and protect. He imagined Allison letting out her frustrations on him, torturing him with electricity and any manner of torturous instruments.

Suddenly, these images slid from his mind. Somehow, he couldn't concentrate on his feelings of helplessness. It was as if something was drawing the negative energies from his body. The grimoire fell from the table just as his thoughts cleared enough to allow him to wonder about the mysterious turn of events beyond his control. The old leather binding creaked as it hit the floorboards, opening to a page. His eyes scanned the words, watching them change and shift before his eyes as he tried to make sense of them. Nothing seemed to pertain to the situation. However, a word caught his eye. Claudia.

Though in the article, it was a note from his great great great grandmother Claudia about the proper usage of lavender in a sleeping spell without sending someone into a coma, the name struck a chord in Stiles' mind. Suddenly, it all became very clear. She was the one draining the bad thoughts from his mind, and she was the one who had stopped him from acting irrationally. Somehow, her powers still lingered, and managed to help him. Thinking about it logically, he knew that he would do more good to Scott safe and away from the Argents than locked up beside him. They were experienced in dealing with magic users, and therefore would easily be able to overcome a novice.

With a deep breath, Stiles stood up. Picking up the grimoire, he turned the knob. Though the old metal protested, he could still easily open the door now. He realized that he needed to take his time and devise a plan to get Scott out of the Argents' grip and then get the both of them to safety before the witch hunters arrived. Heading to his bedroom, he found Boyd already waiting there for him. Apparently, he had sensed something was wrong. A knowing smile spread across Stiles' face.

"Pack your bags, Boyd," he said calmly, confident in his decision, "we're taking a road trip."


	13. Chapter 13

**I know, it's been forever, I'm really trying whenever I can, but I've got two jobs and full time school, so chill. I won't be dropping the fic any time soon. It'll just be slow going for a while. But I'm still here for you!**

Boyd groaned as he stepped out of the Jeep. Though the vehicle appeared spacious at first, sitting in it for hours had caused the boy to resent his confines, especially considering his abnormally large stature. Opening his door, Stiles hobbled out amongst a waterfall of candy wrappers and soda bottles. Even though the entire trip had taken less than a day, Stiles had a need to munch as he drove, especially since Boyd provided relatively little conversation to occupy him. The pale boy scowled as he straightened painfully, his spine stiff and crooked. After allowing blood to flow back to their muscles, the pair looked at the old Victorian house.

Although it didn't look out of place while driving up, the subtle differences stood out now that the two were giving it a proper look. For one thing, there was a larger yard surrounding the house than the neighbors. Instead of the typical tiny patch of grass, a yard surrounded both sides of the door and either side of the house. And instead of having ornamental flowers, like the other houses on the street, the High Witch's house was bedecked with useful herbs and spices. Large bushes of lavender and rosemary were accompanied by spiky ginger leaves, woody thyme, chive stalks, and numerous herbs that Stiles had never seen before. Boyd could smell the heavy cloud of spicy aromas surrounding the old building. He could hear the animals living among the plants; many more than any of the neighbors in the somewhat urban location. The house itself looked older but better maintained than any around it, like a historical landmark that had been preserved as a museum. Overall, Stiles and Boyd agreed that there was no doubt that they had the right place. There was a definite air of magic.

Entering through the wrought iron gate, bells from the arch above their heads cheerily announced their arrival. Smooth, translucent moonstones paved the way to the dark wooden porch, which creaked loudly beneath Boyd's heavy footsteps. They held their breaths as Stiles went to knock on the blue and white door, but found that it was already open before he could rest his knuckles on it. The man had a calm, deeply wrinkled smile. He was old, but not nearly as old as his aura seemed; something about him seemed to imply an age beyond years. His eyes belied his sharp mental prowess. He was dressed simply and modestly, with only a tigerseye amulet around his neck to add any magical impression to his white button down shirt and tan slacks.

"Ah, Stiles and the wolf," he said, his eyes shifting from one to the other. "I suppose it would be a bit cliché to say that I've been expecting you."

Stiles smiled. "I suppose I should've realized that you would know we're coming," he said, still having trouble adjusting to the thought that others had power as well. Boyd wore his usual mask of imperturbability, with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Well, I guess I should welcome you in," the man said, taking a step back to allow the pair entrance. They filed in, both immediately regretting having worn tank tops and shorts as their skin grew goosebumps. Except for the temperature, they were both surprised by the lack of magical aura within the house. It felt comfortable and quaint, but hardly the lair of San Francisco's High Witch. There was simple blue wallpaper and modest furnishings, all with the same old but well-kept quality to them. The High Witch ushered them onto a couch and then took his place on an upholstered chair. Stiles crossed his legs and Boyd shivered as he drew his arms closer around himself for warmth.

"Sorry about the temperature," the High Witch said, causing both boys to nod and smile in agreement of their discomfort. "It's always just a touch too warm in this house."

Stiles stared at the man for a moment, his brain taking a moment to comprehend that the old man thought the house was too warm. He opened his mouth to contradict him, then thought better of it and instead introduced himself. "I'm Stiles, and this here is Boyd," he said, reaching a hand over the coffee table.

"I'm Alfred, the High Witch of San Francisco," the man said, taking Stiles' hand. When their skin touched, smoke rose into the air, trailing up in the shape of a long, wispy snake slithering toward the ceiling. All three men watched the serpent coil and twist its way from their hands to the ceiling, where it found a crack between the decorated tiles and slipped in. The three men stared at it for a long moment in silence. "Well, that can't be good for house..."

Sitting back down, Stiles stared at his hand for a moment. Boyd peered over as well, looking for anything that could have caused the strange occurrence. Alfred chuckled slightly, amused at how easily impressed the youths in front of him were. "So," Stiles started, drawing out the syllable to turn the conversation around to the subject at hand, "we're here about Scott. And the hunters."

"Ah," Alfred commented, crossing one leg over the other and stroking a hand through his well-groomed, white beard. His deep eyes considered Stiles, seeming to look into the past, present, and future of the boy sitting in front of him, shivering in his sleeveless shirt.

Stiles squirmed under the unsettling attention. "Right, well, basically Scott got kidnapped by the hunters. I don't know how to get him back, since they seem to already be a step ahead of me. They know more about magic than I do, and can block me at every turn. Time is running out until the hunters get here, and I don't know what to do," his voice grew more ragged and desperate as he spoke, a surge of adrenaline rising in his stomach and making his breath shallow and nerves oversensitive. He could practically feel the encroaching deadline sliding its fingers around his neck and tensing his muscles as time slipped ever forward.

Alfred's ensuing smile seemed like a juxtaposition to the panic welling inside Stiles. "That is a predicament," the High Witch said.

"That is an understatement," Stiles retorted, his patience wearing thin as he fought for Scott's life.

A dark cloud passed over Alfred's expression, mottling his happy demeanor for a moment. Stiles immediately regretted his insolence, and was relieved when the man seemed to snap out of the momentary gloom, a smile lighting his face once more. "Well," he said, sitting forward, making Stiles and Body anticipate a lengthy explanation, "would anyone else like some tea?"  
Stiles opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it and simply shook his head. Boyd followed his friend's lead, gritting his teeth as the man slowly lifted himself up out of the old horsehair cushions and shuffled into the kitchen. He exchanged annoyed glances with Stiles, both boys feeding of of each other's impatience as they waited for the old man to slowly go about his business. Time seemed to be slipping through their hands like sand, grains wheedling between their tightly gripped fingers as the High Witch made a pot of tea.

The pair watched, their breath hitched in their throats and their toes curling as the man shuffled back into the room. He set down a tray of what looked to be a random assortment of tea ware. The platter was wooden, with a vaguely Asian-looking metal teapot, a dainty blue porcelain cup with a thick black saucer, a crystal sugar bowl, and a white ceramic creamer in the shape of a cow. Given the orderly and neat appearance of the rest of the house, the odd collection of items seemed out of place. After a grueling process, the High Witch had finally managed to fix his cup of tea and settle back into his chair.

"So," he said, breaking the tension, "what brings you to San Francisco?"

Stiles stared incredulously at the man for a moment. He didn't seem to understand that anything was amiss. "Uhm, Scott? The hunters?" Stiles reminded the old man.

"Oh dear, time is running rather short for all of that, isn't it?" he replied. "Of course, the important things do have a way of working themselves out in their own time, don't they? No, the big things can't be rushed or slowed down. They'll happen just as they're supposed to, no matter how long you take."

Stiles sincerely wished he could share the man's optimism, but the risks were far too high to experiment. The most important thing in the world hung in the balance, and Stiles wasn't up for wasting any more time. "So," he said, as calmly as possible,"how do we set about fixing it?"

The man thought for a moment, took a sip of tea, and rested his eyes back on Stiles'. "Things often need to come to a head before any resolution can be found. In your case, I'd say you're like the pinus contorta."

Stiles looked at him, confused. "You're saying I'm a... bug?"

Alfred smiled slightly to himself as he withdrew a pine cone from a decorative bowl on a staircase beside him. Holding the spiky, geometrically patterned object in his fingertips, he held it in front of the two boys' faces. "No, not a bug, a plant. A tree, conifer specifically," the old man said, his eyes twinkling. "The only way that the species can survive is under duress. The cones won't open and spread their seeds until they're exposed to incredibly high temperatures."

As he spoke, fire erupted from his palm, roasting the dense little cone as the flames licked its sides. The geometric scales separated from the cone, extending outward to make the size of the cone double.

"You see," he said, tipping the cone over so millions of tiny, almost invisible seeds poured onto the carpet below, "only when the cone is all but destroyed is its true power released."

"So," Stiles said, looked at the man, dumbfounded, "I'm supposed to... plant trees?"

Alfred smiled, putting the steaming pinecone down on the table beside him. "You'll understand," he said. "Just wait."

"But Scott is about to-" Stiles started, jumping out of his seat. In his anger, he'd knocked over the porcelain teacup, which had somehow made it over to his side of the table without his noticing. In springing out of his seat, he'd managed to tip the cup and saucer off of the side of the low coffee table in front of him. It landed on the hardwood floor, smashing into hundreds of small pieces which scattered all across the room.

Stiles' lips drooped open as he looked down at the destruction he'd caused. Surely the cup was quite old, and it may have even had sentimental value for the man who was nice enough to take the pair into his home and give them advice. Sitting back down, Stiles stared down at his bare feet, the hairs adorning his toes raising in goosebumps, now not just from the cold. From the periphery of his vision, Stiles saw Alfred draw his fingers together in a fluid motion, gesturing in the area where the cup fell. The pieces gathered together, forming a cup once more, but now with noticeable cracks, and chips missing. Stiles now openly stared, as did Boyd, as Alfred held the cup in suspended animation.

"Anger is destructive in its nature. It feeds off of tearing things apart," picking up the teapot, Alfred began pouring tea into the broken cup. "Though amends can be made with time and effort, what's broken can never truly be repaired."

The pair watched tea pour out of the cracks and holes in the little cup, spilling onto the wooden floor below. Stiles watched the demonstration contemplatively, understanding slowly seeping into his consciousness as the tea seeped into the floorboards. With another gesture of his hand, the entire spectacle disappeared, and Alfred was simply holding the teapot. Boyd looked rather startled, as he had yet to see the power of magic. Stiles, however, was more impressed with the message. The anger welling inside him was slowly mottling his love for Scott, making him impatient and clumsy. These attributes wouldn't help rescue Scott, and would only serve to deter him on his quest to do so.

"Now, why don't you boys get on your way, since you're in such a hurry?" Albert said, setting the teapot down and lifting himself from the chair. "You'll get where you need to go, but it's best not to keep destiny waiting, hm?"

The man raised his thin white eyebrows in expectation of an answer. Smiling, Stiles nodded enthusiastically. Boyd set his mouth in a grim line as he stood, seeming rather to accept fate than embrace it. The High Witch showed them to the door, where they each thanked him for his guidance and hospitality. Tired, the pair shuffled over the threshold into the night air, a chorus of crickets embracing them.

Once on the porch, however, both boys stopped, staring at the world around them. Suddenly, the sun was shining once more, and they both felt as if they'd awoken from a long, deep sleep. Their skin felt warm once again, as if they hadn't spent over an hour in a freezing cold house. Looking at his watch, Boyd confirmed that they had spent less than a minute in the High Witch's house. Turning around, Stiles couldn't see anything through the windows. They were dingy with dust and grime. Indeed, the entire house appeared to be falling apart, as if it hadn't been lived in for years.

Wordlessly, the pair made their way across the porch, cautious of rotting boards, and followed the overgrown path to their car. Both realized that they felt rejuvenated and well-rested, as if they had spent the night eating well and resting. The only exchange between the pair was a brief meeting of the eyes, with which they saw a reflection of their own amazement and confusion. Somehow, talking about it seemed to only cheapen the almost religious experience. Instead, they entered the car, determined to continue on back to Beacon Hills, where they could use their new found knowledge to somehow get Scott back.

**Again, sorry it's been soooo long. I'll keep updating as often as I can! Please bear with me! I appreciate all of you, and I hope you're still liking the story!**


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